


Will You Still Hear My Voice Through the Radio

by BreTheWriter



Series: Hold Me Like You'll Never Let Me Go [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreTheWriter/pseuds/BreTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The search for the Winter Soldier is frustrating Steve. The last thing he needs is the constant phone calls from a number he doesn't recognize. On the other hand, once he finally answers, it may turn out to be exactly the kind of thing he needs to get his head on straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will You Still Hear My Voice Through the Radio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purpleyedemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleyedemon/gifts), [silvertempest](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=silvertempest).



> This is the longest story in the series. Just going to throw that out there. It...kind of got away from me. I couldn't figure out where to stop!
> 
> PLEASE pay attention to the tags, if there's anything that might trigger you.
> 
> Also, in case anyone is curious, the title comes from a Reba McEntire/Vince Gill duet called "The Heart Won't Lie."

            “There has to be _something!”_ Steve growls, slapping the table in frustration. “A lead. A hint. _Something._ He can’t just _vanish._ ”

            “Why not?” Sam asks logically.

            “People don’t just disappear, Sam.”

            “Ghosts do.”

            “He’s _not a ghost!_ He’s a human being!” Steve looks up and scowls at Sam.

            Sam doesn’t look in the least bit ruffled. “Then there’s something out there. You just can’t find it.”

            “Which is the whole damned _problem_ ,” Steve snaps.

            Sam raises an eyebrow. “Dude. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before.”

            “I was in the Army, remember?” Steve takes a deep breath. Somehow Sam’s steadfast refusal to get tense or snap back at him calms him down, which he guesses is why Sam does it. After all, the man is trained in dealing with veterans with PTSD and anger management issues.

            Sam waits a moment, then puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re looking too hard. Or maybe you’re looking at it wrong.”

            Steve sighs, dropping his head to his hands. It’s been a little less than two weeks since the world went to hell. He’s been out of the hospital for five days, and he’s spent most of it sitting here at Sam’s kitchen table, trying desperately to pick up a trail. Fury’s gone, probably to Europe or something. Natasha’s gone, saying cryptically that she has “things of her own to take care of.” Hill’s gone, working for Stark Industries. Steve would be alone if it weren’t for Sam, who refuses to leave him to do this on his own. He’s a good guy, and Steve is grateful, really he is.

            “How should I be looking at it, then?” he mutters. It’s an honest question. He’s been over the file Natasha gave him at Fury’s “grave” a dozen times, and he can’t come up with a single damned thing. But he’s determined. He _will_ track this down, he _will_ find him, and he _will_ save him.

            One of Steve’s hands steals towards the dog tags hanging around his neck. Nobody’s ever really bothered to look at them, never asked to see them, but strictly speaking they aren’t _his._ The name stamped into the metal in all capital letters is BARNES, JAMES B.

            They traded dog tags one night, not long after Steve rescued Bucky and his comrades from the HYDRA facility. Bucky wore Steve’s tags and Steve wore Bucky’s, and it was a way of reminding themselves and one another that they were in this together, _it’s you and me, pal, until the end of the line._ And after Bucky fell from the train into the ravine, it was all Steve had left. He didn’t even have a picture of his best friend, the way he did of Peggy. Not over there, anyway. All his pictures were back in the little one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that he couldn’t see himself returning to now. It wasn’t home without Bucky.

            When S.H.I.E.L.D. thawed him out and woken him up, he was grateful to discover that they hadn’t taken those tags from him. Steve hasn’t taken them off since. He never said anything to Fury, or Natasha, or Sam, but he’s been clinging to them a lot more lately. Since the bridge. Since the Winter Soldier’s mask came off and Steve saw who was behind it.

            Bucky isn’t dead. He’s alive. And Steve is determined to rescue him again.

            “You’re looking for your best friend,” Sam says quietly. “You’re trying to track down Bucky Barnes…”

            “Of course I am.” Steve stops himself from snapping at Sam with difficulty.

            “Yeah, well…maybe you should be looking for the Winter Soldier.”

            “There’s no difference—”

            “Oh?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “Would Bucky Barnes open fire on a bridge full of innocent civilians? Would Bucky Barnes blow up a car in the middle of a busy street? Would Bucky Barnes beat the shit out of you—especially when you didn’t lift a finger to defend yourself?”

            Steve pushes away from the table, upset, and takes a few steps away from Sam, fighting back hot tears of anger. He’s not mad at Sam, necessarily. The truth is, the first two…Steve isn’t so sure Bucky _wouldn’t_ do those things, if he was ordered to. Bucky was a good soldier, he’d follow orders even if they were morally grey. But Sam is right. Bucky—the Bucky Steve knew—would have died rather than hurt him. Bucky dragged him out of the Potomac—but the Winter Soldier put him there.

            “No,” he says finally, his voice raw with pain. “He wouldn’t.”

            Before Sam can say anything, Steve’s phone rings. He jumps slightly, pulls it out of his pocket, and glares at the display. “Not this son of a bitch again,” he mutters.

            “Someone you’re avoiding?” Sam asks dryly.

            Steve thrusts the phone back into his pocket. “I don’t know _who_ the hell it is. It’s a 424 area code—I don’t even know where that is—but whoever it is, he’s been calling me _constantly_ for the last three days. It’s getting really annoying.”

            Sam makes a face, but says nothing. Instead, he turns back to the file. “Look. The Winter Soldier has been mostly kept at HYDRA bases, right? So it’s likely that that’s where he’s heading. Someplace familiar. Wouldn’t it make sense to start by trying to ferret out HYDRA hotspots?”

            Steve takes a deep breath. He hates the idea of Bucky in HYDRA bases, of his best friend being tortured and brainwashed and frozen and thawed at the whim of a bunch of sadistic men who want to enslave the world, but he has to admit that Sam is right. “You’ve got a point there.”

            Sam gets out a map and spreads it on the table. The two of them pore over it for a while, murmuring to one another as they compare notes from the Winter Soldier file with locations on the map. Sam fires up his laptop and accesses the S.H.I.E.L.D. files Natasha dumped onto the internet, and they cross-reference S.H.I.E.L.D. missions gone horribly wrong with appearances of the Winter Soldier and things on the map.

            “Hey, here’s one of Natasha’s,” Sam says, swiveling his laptop around so that Steve can see the screen.

            Steve begins reading. Dated some five or six years previously, the file describes a mission that strikes him as fairly routine for S.H.I.E.L.D., extracting information from a small but nasty cabal of criminals. Natasha went in to get the data while Agent Clint Barton provided covering fire. Steve thinks of the muscular blond archer and feels a small pang of guilt—he ought to have checked up on him after dropping the news on him about Coulson.

            He’s about to ask Sam why he even called this mission to Steve’s attention when the word _ambush_ catches his eye. He keeps reading and feels the bile, the rage, rising in his throat. Someone tipped the cabal off that “Strike Team Delta” would be the ones coming after them—and everyone knows that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s deadliest marksman is in Strike Team Delta. If you want to defeat them, look for a high spot and you’ll probably find Barton.

            They had.

            Natasha realized that the covering fire had stopped and contacted Coulson (Steve gets another pang at the sight of the man’s name) to tell him. Coulson investigated, found Barton critically injured with the criminals preparing for a fatal blow. Steve does a double-take at the next words in the report. _Agent Romanoff joined them to find all ten Synosius agents dead. When asked how she could be certain they were dead, Agent Romanoff replied that their heads were no longer attached to their bodies. Agent Coulson refused to comment and received a citation in his file._

            “I don’t know who this Coulson guy is, but he sounds like a badass,” Sam offers. “The kind of guy you’d want to have on your team.”

            “Yeah,” Steve says, still staring at the stark description. He tries to reconcile the man he remembers—the bright-eyed, quiet, eager middle-aged man who could even put Tony Stark at ease—with the man described in this file. They must have put up one hell of a fight.

            “Think he’d help us look for the Winter Soldier?” Sam asks, his tone indicating that he’s only half-joking.

            “No,” Steve answers, hearing the tightness in his voice, the barely controlled anger he still feels two years later. “He died.”

            Sam stares at him. And then Steve’s phone begins ringing in his pocket again. He pulls it out, wondering if it’s Natasha…but no, it’s the same damned 424 number as before. Probably a persistent telemarketer. Steve’s eyes flash. His anger about what HYDRA did to Bucky, his anger about what Loki did to Coulson, mingle with his irritation at this person who _won’t quit calling him,_ and instead of ignoring it, he slams his thumb against the green “call” button so hard that he hears something crack.

            “I don’t know who the hell you are, or what you’re trying to sell, but I’m not buying it, whatever it is,” he snarls into the phone.

            There’s a brief pause before a familiar voice answers. “Sorry, Cap, I didn’t think about the fact that you wouldn’t have my number programmed into your phone.”

            Steve’s expression morphs from anger to surprise. “Stark?”

            “The one and only.”

            Steve hesitates. “How’d you get my number?”

            “Natasha,” Stark answers. “She passed through a few days ago on her way to take care of something else and gave it to me. Are you okay?”

            Steve lets out a harsh and bitter laugh, pushing away from the table again. “Well, let’s see. I went on what was supposed to be a routine mission and found out it was a cover for a secret mission that I didn’t know about, which almost got everyone killed. I found out S.H.I.E.L.D. was planning to launch three gigantic ships to eliminate threats before they even happened—which _you_ helped design, by the way—and had an argument with Fury over it. I watched him get shot right in front of me and was helpless to do a damned thing about it, and when I tried to chase down the guy he snatched my shield out of midair, threw it back at me, and got away. I had an entire squad of guys I had trusted with my life try to kill me in an elevator. I met a computer possessed by the mind of a scientist who committed atrocities that make Loki look like a playground bully, on _people I cared about_ , and barely managed to keep myself from getting blown up. I watched the world fall down around my ears, I witnessed the destruction of the organization that gave me a purpose in life, wound up in the hospital with injuries that even my souped-up immune system couldn’t cope with quickly, and, oh yeah, I found out that my best friend in the world, who I thought was dead, had been brainwashed, tortured, and turned into a ruthless _killing machine_ by the same organization I sacrificed myself to bring down almost seventy years ago. Yeah, I’m just _fine._ ” He practically spits the last word out.

            “Okay, poor choice of words,” Stark says. Steve is too angry to really register his tone of voice. “What I should have said was, are you safe?”

            “Am I _safe?_ ” Steve repeats incredulously.

            “That’s what I’m asking,” Stark replies seriously. “I know you were staying in an apartment in D.C., but—I mean, I’m guessing people _know_ that’s where you live, so I’m assuming you didn’t go back there when you got out of the hospital. So wherever you are, is it safe? Somewhere people don’t necessarily recognize you? Good security system?”

            “What the hell do _you_ care?” Steve snarls.

            He hears, over the line, the sound of Stark drawing in a deep breath. “I discovered HYDRA was still around two hours too late to do anything about it. I was helpless to do anything but _watch_ as the world went to hell. I have spent the last ten days trying to track down the people I care about, people those bastards wanted to kill for no other reason than that they’re better people than I could ever hope to be—and, by the way, I was on that list, too. Nick Fury is dead. Victoria Hand is dead. There’s a twenty-six-year-old S.H.I.E.L.D. agent lying in a room three floors above me fighting for his life because someone he trusted betrayed him and dropped him out of a moving plane into the Pacific Ocean. I’ve been calling you for the last three days because you’re the only one I hadn’t found yet, and I haven’t slept in that entire span of time because, between not knowing how _you_ are and knowing _exactly_ how Fitz is, I’ve been scared out of my fucking mind. You’re my friend whether you like it or not, so answer the goddamned question, Rogers. _Are. You. Safe?_ ”

            Steve is rocked to the core. Stark’s voice has none of the sarcasm or cynicism he’s accustomed to, none of the bitterness or levity. He sounds almost…broken. Desperate. _Sincere._ He really means what he’s saying—he’s been worried about Steve’s safety. The other stuff, about a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent recuperating in Stark Tower or wherever, that Steve doesn’t understand at all…but he does understand this.

            “Yeah,” he says quietly, all his anger leaving him a rush. He sags against the counter, feeling suddenly tired, like he’s been drained of energy. “I’m staying at a friend’s house. We’re safe enough for now.”

            “Good.” Stark’s voice is quiet, too. “That’s good.” He clears his throat. “Listen, I—I’ve put in the offer to everyone else, so I’ll extend it to you. Your friend, too. If you need a place to go…you can come out here. I’m not in New York, I’m in Malibu…I’ve got more room in this place than I know what to do with. It’s—I mean, J.A.R.V.I.S. keeps the place pretty secure, and it’s isolated, so…”

            “I appreciate the offer, Stark,” Steve says, and to his mild surprise he means it. “What did the others say?”

            He imagines Stark shrugging. “Banner might or might not come out. He’s in New Delhi right now, nobody’s been bothering him, but if he starts getting on edge, he’ll come out here. Thor’s fine. He’s in London with Dr. Foster—you know, the astrophysicist, the one who was working with Selvig before he joined the Tesseract Project? Anyway, nobody seems to be bothering him over there, but he’ll come when we need him, eventually. And Natasha said she appreciated the offer, but she’s got stuff of her own to work on and she can take care of herself. She promised to keep in touch, said she’d pop in from time to time whenever she was in the area, but she won’t be staying here on any kind of a permanent basis.”

            “What about Barton?” Steve asks, concern sharpening the edge of his voice, when Stark stops and obviously isn’t planning to continue.

            “Clint? He’s already here.”

            Steve relaxes, slightly. “That was fast.”

            Stark chuckles softly, but without much humor. “Truth is, he’s been here six months already, give or take a couple weeks.”

            “Six _months?_ What about—” Steve stops. Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen Barton around the Triskelion since the Battle of Manhattan. _Strike Team Delta._ They didn’t work alone. But ever since Manhattan, Natasha has either been working solo or working with Steve. He feels a little guilty—he’s been so busy trying to ignore the elephant in the room that is Natasha working without Coulson that he’s completely missed Barton’s absence.

            “It…it hit him hard,” Stark says quietly. “Finding out about Coulson, I mean. He was pretty much drinking himself into an early grave. I don’t think he had a single sober moment between seeing Coulson’s body in the morgue and me scraping him off a bar stool here in Malibu.”

            Steve remembers sitting in a bar after Bucky fell, crying unashamedly and discovering to his misery that Erskine’s serum had made him incapable of getting drunk. He curses himself for not having realized that Coulson and Barton must have been best friends, too. It certainly explains the look of absolute panic when Steve asked if anyone had told Barton what happened.

            “Is he all right now?” he asks.

            “Yeah. Hasn’t touched a drop since then. We’ve both been going to AA. And we’ve gotten to be good friends, which…you know, it helps to have someone to talk to. The alcohol deadened the pain. Take that away, he had to learn to face it, and…” Stark’s voice trails away.

            Steve can’t help but be surprised that Stark is admitting that he has—had—a problem with alcohol, too. It’s a weakness, which Stark hates admitting to. But when Steve opens his mouth, what comes out is a bitter, “At least he _could_ get drunk.”

            Stark is silent for a moment. “It’s not worth it, Cap. Trust me.”

            Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s shorter than when he was a kid in Brooklyn, but still a little long. “Maybe I _should_ come out there,” he mumbles. “I—I mean, I kinda know what Barton must’ve been going through.” Is probably _still_ going through, to be honest. That kind of pain isn’t something you just get over six months or even a couple of years. Steve still feels the sting of every day he’s spent without Bucky—and he knows Bucky is still alive. Somewhere deep down, trapped in the mind of the Winter Soldier, Bucky is still there…

            “Hey, even if you just wanted to come for a day or two, that’d be fine,” Stark says quickly. “Just an afternoon, even. One of my dad’s prototype jets is still parked in a hangar at Dulles. You’re welcome to use it.”

            “How come you’re not in New York?” Steve asks, suddenly curious. He actually hadn’t been aware that Stark owned any homes other than Stark Tower.

            “Oh…I came out here last summer to rebuild. The Mandarin destroyed the place, and…you know, I have some good memories out here. Then the AA group turned out to be more…helpful than the one in New York was. When I found Clint, we stuck around out here because it’s more isolated, not as crowded—easier to recover, for both of us, I guess.” Stark sighs. “Now? It’s mostly because of Fitz. He’s starting to heal, slowly, but he’s still in bad shape, and I don’t think we can risk moving him yet.”

            Steve guesses that Fitz is the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Stark mentioned earlier. “How do we find this jet?”

* * *

            Steve acknowledges the radio tower and guides the jet down to the runway. Next to him, Sam shakes his head. “Eight hours. I don’t know how you did it, but you did it.”

            “I didn’t do much,” Steve admits as they taxi along the runway, looking for the shed with the Stark Industries logo. “This thing has a GPS that puts anything on the market to shame. Howard Stark was well ahead of his time.”

            “What’s the son like?” Sam asks. “Tony Stark, I mean. I’ve seen him on the news a time or two, but I’ve never met him.”

            Steve doesn’t answer for a minute. Finally, he says, “He’s an arrogant son of a bitch. Twisted sense of humor. He’s smart and he knows it, and he tends to make jokes at the most inappropriate times.” He pauses, maneuvering the plane around a tight corner. “But he’s not short on nerve. He’s loyal, too, and he _does_ feel things pretty deeply. He just uses humor to cover the pain, I think.”

            “Lot of guys do that,” Sam observes.

            “You’d know.” Steve gives his friend a half-smile. “All things considered, he’s a good man to have on your side in a fight. Or out of it, come to think of it.”

            “He seems like a good guy,” Sam offers. “I mean, he was genuinely worried about you.”

            “Yeah.” Steve isn’t sure how to feel about that. He and Stark had butted heads almost from the beginning, and it had only been Coulson’s death that had brought them to an uneasy accord. Yet he has to admit that Stark had come up with a plan to draw out Loki quickly enough, and he’d been willing to follow Steve’s lead during the actual battle, even though he could have claimed seniority.

            Suddenly, Steve chuckles. Sam looks at him. “What?”

            “Oh, it just suddenly occurred to me—if you’re going by birthdays, I’m the oldest of the Avengers, or at least the ones who were born on Earth, but if you’re going by years _lived,_ I’m actually the youngest. I was only twenty-six when I went under the ice.”

            “So you’re…what, twenty-eight now?”

            “Yeah.” Steve’s birthday isn’t until July.

            He finally locates the hangar, guides the plane into it. To his surprise, there’s a dark-colored SUV sitting by the door. He eyes it warily. “You see the driver anywhere?”

            “No,” Sam answers, also looking wary.

            Steve gets out cautiously, keeping a sharp eye out, but the hangar is deserted. He sees a note tacked to the driver’s seat of the SUV, hesitates, then opens the door and picks it up.

            _This is B.E.C.K.A.,_ the note reads. _Jump in and press the button under the steering column. She’ll take you straight home. –A.E.S._

            “A.E.S.?” Sam says, looking over his shoulder.

            “Anthony Edward Stark,” Steve says absently. He eyes the car—B.E.C.K.A., the note said her name was. The question is just how much he trusts Stark. If it were just his life at stake, there’d be no question, he’d jump right in, but with Sam…

            “I’m game if you are,” Sam says, shrugging.

            Steve hesitates a moment longer, then nods. “Hop in.”

            They climb into the car, close the doors, buckle their seatbelts. Steve feels under the steering column and locates a button, which he presses. The vehicle starts up instantly. It’s a surprisingly quiet motor.

            “Electric?” Sam asks, surprised.

            “Anything’s possible with Stark,” Steve answers.

            The car drives itself out of the hangar and along a back road. Steve is just getting used to being in the driver’s seat without touching the steering wheel when it suddenly accelerates, shifts gears—and _lifts off the ground._

“I didn’t know it _flew!”_ Sam yelps, grabbing the door handle.

             “Neither did I.” Steve makes himself stay calm. Stark wouldn’t have sent it if it was dangerous, he reasons. “We’re all right, Sam.”

            In actuality, they’re not in the air for more than ten minutes before the car touches down on the end of a long driveway. It pulls up to a truly impressive glass and brick edifice with a flat roof. The last rays of the sun sink into the ocean, turning one wall blood-red in a way that makes Steve shiver slightly even as it thrills his artist’s soul.

            The car pulls into a garage and parks itself neatly next to a cherry-red car. The sight of the car is like a punch to Steve’s gut; it reminds him of the flying car Howard Stark demonstrated at the Stark Expo, the night before Bucky shipped off to England. He closes his eyes briefly and reminds himself to breathe, then opens the door and climbs out.

            Sam whistles as he gets out, studying the convertible. “Nice car.”

            “Don’t touch Lola,” says a voice from above them.

            Steve turns and sees Stark standing in the doorway. He’s smiling, but on his face is a look of undisguised relief. “Stark,” Steve says, nodding.

            “Cap,” Stark replies, returning the nod. “Glad you could make it.”

            “Thanks for the ride,” Steve says, indicating B.E.C.K.A. “Uh, this is Sam Wilson…Sam, this is Tony Stark.”

            “Nice to meet you, Mr. Stark,” Sam says, holding out his hand.

            “Drop the ‘mister.’ Just Stark’s fine. Or Tony. Either-or.” Stark shakes Sam’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Come on in.”

            Steve isn’t sure what to expect. It’s obvious that, from the outside at least, this place is nothing like Stark Tower. In fact, it looks more like a modern art museum. Except for that brief moment in the tower, too, he’s never been in a wealthy person’s house. But the house is surprisingly cozy. There’s a wide foyer with a floating staircase leading upwards, big open halls, and lights gradually coming on automatically. Outside the back window, Steve can see the ocean curving away into the darkness.

            “It’s, what, a seven-hour flight from D.C. to here?” Stark asks, turning around as he walks. “You guys must be starving.”

            Steve remembers that Stark was constantly offering food to everyone during the Avengers Initiative. “Actually, I am kind of hungry,” he admits.

            “Come on.” Stark leads them across the foyer.

            As they get closer, Steve begins hearing voices, speaking softly. They enter the kitchen to find two people talking quietly. A young woman, maybe Steve’s age, maybe a little younger, leans against a counter, nursing a cup of something hot, her light brown hair drawn back in a ponytail and dark circles under her eyes. The man talking to her is taller, with dark hair and eyes, looking less weary. There’s something familiar about him, but Steve can’t put a finger on it. He’s working over another counter, making what looks like a plate of sandwiches.

            “Hey, you don’t have to do that,” Stark protests.

            The man shrugs, setting another sandwich on the plate. “I get the feeling we’ll be leaving in a day or two, so I figured I might as well do something to thank you for giving us a place to stay.”

            The young woman makes a small, pained noise in the back of her throat. Steve looks at her in concern. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

            The young woman starts, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Oh!” she exclaims. Her voice has a British lilt to it. It reminds him painfully of Peggy. “You startled me, I—” She breaks off, flustered.

            Steve opens his mouth to apologize, but Stark beats him to it. “It’s okay, Simmons…gentlemen, this is Agent Jemma Simmons and Agent Antoine Triplett. Simmons, Trip, meet Sam Wilson and Captain Steve Rogers.”

            Simmons’ eyes widen even more, her mouth falling open slightly. Trip, on the other hand, straightens, coming smartly to attention, and touches his forehead in salute. “It’s a privilege and an honor to meet you, Captain Rogers.”

            “The honor is mine, Agent Triplett,” Steve replies, holding out his hand.

            Trip shakes it. “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”

            “I’d imagine most people in S.H.I.E.L.D. have,” Sam says.

            “Maybe,” Trip agrees. “But I’d heard a lot about you long _before_ I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. From my granddad.”

            Steve assumes that Trip’s grandfather was around in the forties, maybe even saw the U.S.O. show. Then Trip squares his shoulders and looks at him head-on, and he again sees that familiarity. It’s in the young man’s eyes—and then, suddenly, he knows. It’s another punch to the gut. “You’re Gabe Jones’ grandson,” he says quietly.

            “Yes, sir, I am,” Trip replies.

            “I can tell. You’ve got his eyes.”

            “You noticed,” Stark says, deadpan.

            Steve barely spares him a glance. “I’ve been trained to notice details like that.”

            “You got a better education in your military days than we do now,” Sam says.

            Steve _does_ turn to look at him, a little surprised—although, really, why should he be? The display at the Smithsonian doesn’t really focus much on his life before becoming Captain America, except to list his stats and medical history. “I didn’t learn that in the Army. I was an art student before the war.”

            “Man, you are just _full_ of surprises.”

            It’s on the tip of Steve’s tongue to reply with a flippant _Isn’t everyone?_ But he stops himself. The last few weeks have been nothing _but_ surprises, one after the other. _Surprise, Natasha’s working a mission on the side. Surprise, S.H.I.E.L.D. is building gigantic floating weapons to allegedly serve as “peacekeepers”. Surprise, Nick Fury is in your apartment. Surprise, your next-door neighbor is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent masquerading as a nurse. Surprise, S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded in an underground bunker at your old training camp. Surprise, HYDRA isn’t dead. Surprise, neither is your best friend. Surprise, neither is Fury. Surprise, neither are you…_

            “Are you all right, sir?” Simmons ventures, looking up at him.

            Steve forces a smile. “I’m fine, Agent Simmons. Thank you. It’s just been a long couple of weeks.”

            Simmons glances up at the ceiling, almost involuntarily. “I know what you mean.”

            Stark follows her gaze, looking anxious. “How is he?”

            “He’s…stable.” Simmons visibly forces herself to look back at the small group. “He’s not getting any worse. But…I can’t see that he’s getting any better, either.” The worry in her eyes is obvious.

            “It’s going to take time, Simmons,” Stark says. The gentleness in his tone surprises Steve. “His body’s been through a lot. He’s not going to get better overnight. Give him a chance.”

            “Intellectually, I know that. But…” Simmons’ lower lip trembles and her eyes fill with tears.

            “C’mere, kid.” Stark spreads his arms. Simmons whimpers. Abruptly, she drops her mug on the counter and throws herself at Stark, who holds her tightly, letting her bury her face in his chest as her shoulders start shaking.

            Steve feels slightly off-balance. He didn’t think Stark cared about anyone other than himself. He’s not prepared for the compassion and concern he can see on the man’s dark features as he tries to comfort the young woman. Steve would almost suspect Stark of ulterior motives—he remembers the father, after all, the man was a notorious playboy, and the son claimed the same distinction two years previously—if it wasn’t for the fact that Stark has tears in his eyes, too. Either something has drastically changed since they met, or Steve has grossly misjudged Stark.

            He’s prepared to concede the latter.

            After a few moments, Simmons pulls back, and Stark immediately lets go of her. “Better?” he asks gently.

            Simmons nods, wiping at the corners of her eyes. “Thank you,” she says. “Sorry about that.” She glances at Steve as she says this.

            “No need to be sorry,” Steve tells her. “Stark mentioned when we talked earlier that there was an agent who’d been—” he hesitates—“injured.”

            “That’s…putting it rather mildly.” Simmons sighs, picking up her mug again and gripping it tightly. “We were tracking down a member of our team who’d…he was a HYDRA agent. Fitz and I—we found him, along with the Bus—our transport, he’d stolen it. We were going to send out one of our D.W.A.R.F. drones to track it and do light surveillance, but Ward caught us. He…it’s a long story. We were trying to get away and Ward was chasing us and we locked ourselves in one of the pods and…Ward just ejected it. We landed in the Pacific Ocean. Fitz broke his arm, but…he was conscious and I wasn’t, so he built a distress beacon and took care of me until I came round. He was the one who figured out that we could blow the seal on the window and how to do it, and he found an oxygen bottle—it was empty, but he rigged it to give one high-powered blast, so that it would give me enough air to get ninety feet up or so—but there wasn’t enough in it for two.” Her speech is getting more and more rapid, and her eyes flood with tears again. “He tried to make me leave him, tried to make me go without him, but I just—I couldn’t just leave him there—but he was without oxygen for so long, there was nothing I could do about that—I tried my best, but he was unconscious and then—”

            “Hey,” Stark interrupts her, gently but firmly. “You did everything you could have done for him, Simmons. You saved his life. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

            “I should have done more,” Simmons whispers.

            Steve opens his mouth to say something, but Sam beats him to it, speaking quietly but sincerely. “Everybody feels that way. When something happens to your partner, your buddy…especially when you’re right there…it feels like your fault, like there’s something more you could have done. It’s okay to feel that way. It’s normal. But it’s not true. Eventually you’ll start to realize that. But you’ve got to come to that knowledge at your own pace. Don’t let anyone rush you.”

            Stark’s eyebrows twitch upward in surprise, but Simmons wipes her eyes again and manages a grateful smile. “Thank you, sir. Are—I’m sorry, I’m being nosy, but are you a psychiatrist?”

            “No, but I volunteer—volunteered—at the VA hospital. Ran a support group for soldiers with PTSD.” Sam’s eyes take on the haunted look they did when he and Steve met at the hospital that afternoon. “And I’ve been there.”

            Trip nods. “Granddad used to tell me that it never really goes away, but eventually you learn to live with it. I’m still having to learn that, too.”

            Steve sees the pain in Stark’s eyes. They’ve all lost someone, he thinks, all been forced to deal with seeing people die and knowing that it could easily have been them, believed that it _should_ have been them. Simmons is lucky, in that her friend is still alive, but that doesn’t make the trauma any less painful.

            A burst of laughter from somewhere behind him startles him. Before he can do more than turn towards the sound, however, three women appear, all looking somewhat disheveled but in good spirits. The eldest has jet-black hair and dark, slanted eyes; the youngest has brown hair a few shades darker than Simmons’ and eyes to match. The third, he sees with relief, is Natasha.

            Natasha notices Steve and Sam, and her eyes light up. “Hey!” She hugs Sam, who’s closest to her, then turns and wraps Steve in a bear hug.

            He hugs her back. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

            Natasha nods. “Yeah. You?”

            “Getting there.” Steve smiles and releases her.

            “Captain Rogers,” says the older woman, nodding crisply with a little half-smile on her face.

            Steve recognizes her then and returns the nod and half-smile. “Agent May. Good to see you again.”

            “Likewise.”

            Natasha raises her eyebrows in surprise, looking from May to Steve and back. “Wait, you guys have met before?”

            “Couple of times.” Steve cocks his head. “Thought you’d retired from active fieldwork.”

            “I thought so, too.” May shrugs and folds her arms. “Fury suggested I rethink that decision. Who’s your friend?”

            “Agent May, meet Sam Wilson,” Steve says. “Sam, Agent Melinda May.”

            “Nice to meet you.” Sam holds out his hand and May shakes it.

            “This is Agent Skye,” Stark says, nodding towards the younger woman. “Skye, meet Captain Steve Rogers.”

            Skye’s eyes widen. “No _way,”_ she blurts.

            Steve nods to the young woman. She looks to be about Simmons’ age, perhaps a bit younger. “No first name, Agent Skye?”

            Skye makes a slight face. “Oh. Uh…no. It’s just Skye.”

            There’s probably a story there, but Steve doesn’t press. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Just Skye.”

            Skye starts laughing. She has to lean against the doorframe, she’s laughing so hard. Steve is a little bewildered, wondering what he said that was so funny. Before he can say anything, however, she says, “Oh, my _God._ Do you two share a brain or something? That’s _exactly_ what he said when I told him that.” She gestures vaguely at Stark.

            “Old man humor,” Sam says with a straight face.

            Steve looks at Stark. Unexpectedly, he feels his lips twitch. And suddenly both he and Stark crack up. He laughs like he hasn’t laughed since his first encounter with the Winter Soldier, laughs until the tears start rolling down his cheeks. Stark is laughing almost as hard. It’s probably just all the tension he’s been under finally reaching the breaking point, but he can’t help himself. It feels… _good._ For a split second, he’s back in New York, dozing at a table in a hole-in-the-wall café over a plate of shawarma.

            For a second.

            Finally, he calms down, wiping the tears of laughter out of his eyes. “Sorry. Wasn’t laughing at you.” He’s not sure who he’s talking to—Skye or Sam or both.

            “It’s cool,” Sam says.

            Natasha smirks knowingly. “Feel better?”

            “Actually, yeah,” Steve says, only a little surprised.

            “Good.” Natasha turns to Trip. “What are you doing with that knife, by the way?”

            Trip starts, staring at the knife in his hand. “Oh. Hello. Forgot about that. Yeah, I made sandwiches. Anyone hungry?”

            Steve gives a slight bow. “Ladies first.”

            May’s eyes twinkle. “I give way to seniority.”

            Natasha snickers. Steve rolls his eyes at both of them, but he does grab a sandwich. It turns out to be chicken salad.

            A few minutes of silent chewing later—Trip’s sandwiches are really good—Steve suddenly realizes there’s someone missing from the group. “Where’s Barton?”

            “Upstairs, probably.” Unaccountably, Natasha smirks again.

            “He was on the roof, last I saw him,” Simmons volunteers.

            “Mind if I go check in with him?” Steve asks Stark. He doesn’t want to go wandering around the house without Stark’s permission, but at the same time, he really should have checked in with Barton sooner, especially since he was the one to tell him that Coulson was dead.

            Stark hesitates. “Yeah, go ahead. Straight up the stairs, there’s a door at the top. Be careful going past the third floor—Fitz’s room is pretty close to the stairs, if he’s sleeping…”

            Steve nods in understanding. “Be right back.”

            He doesn’t miss the look May gives Stark, but he chooses to ignore it as he leaves the kitchen and heads up the stairs.

            The staircase is open between the first floor and the second, but enclosed between the second and third. He tries to be quiet as he comes up the stairs, something he’s usually good at, but the third step from the top creaks, rather loudly. He winces, hoping he hasn’t disturbed anyone.

            No such luck. A moment later, a door opens and a figure comes out, wearing a stern expression. “I thought I told you to—” it begins, then stops. “You’re not Simmons.”

            Steve stands frozen on the second stair, astonished at what he sees. The man before him is wearing a button-down shirt that probably used to be white, the sleeves pushed up and the collar undone. His brown hair is thinning and his eyes are slightly wide with surprise. One hand grips the doorknob of the room he’s just come out of, as if he’s forgotten what it’s for.

            Finally, Steve finds his voice. “Damn it, does _anybody_ stay dead anymore?” he blurts out.

            “Most do,” the other replies. “Not all. But most.”

            Steve manages to get himself onto the landing. “What—how did—Fury lied about _this,_ too?” He tries to keep his voice down, remembering what Stark said about Fitz possibly sleeping.

            “Not exactly,” the other says quickly. “When—when he told you I was dead—I _was._ Dead, that is. He brought me back—it was a side project we were working on…you know, just in case. But I was dead. For about a week.” He swallows. “It’s—it’s good to see you, Captain.”

            Steve swallows as well, forcing himself to calm down. “It’s good to see you, too, Agent Coulson.”

            Coulson smiles. It’s almost the same smile as before, but there’s something behind it—a sadness, a weariness maybe. Steve can recognize that. It’s the same change that came over his own smile after he lost—or thought he lost—Bucky. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have come down to greet you.”

            Steve tries to smile in reply. “That’s all right. I imagine you were with Agent Fitz.”

            “I was.” Coulson’s smile disappears. “He’s asleep now. I’m sorry, I—I thought you were Agent Simmons. I have to order her out of Fitz’s room from time to time…”

            “I can understand that,” Steve says. “She told me what happened. At least you were able to rescue them…”

            “Not us.” Coulson glances over his shoulder, then drops his voice even further. “That was Fury.”

            Steve nods slowly. “Then you know—”

            “Yeah. I also know that only a handful of other people know that. Maria Hill. Nat.” Coulson bites his lip. “Simmons knows, but Fitz doesn’t. Agent May—I don’t know if you’ve met her—”

            “I’d met her before, but yeah, I saw her downstairs. Think I met the rest of your team.”

            “Well, she knows, but Trip and Skye don’t. Clint knows—he saw him when he brought Fitz here—but Tony doesn’t.”

            Steve notes that Coulson and Stark seem to be on a first-name basis. “Sam knows, too. But I think that’s pretty much the full complement of us.”

            “Sam?” Coulson looks confused.

            “Wilson. He’s—a friend.” Steve swallows. “He helped Natasha and me take down the helicarriers.”

            Coulson nods. “Victoria Hand told me about that. Well, I mean, she told me you’d taken them down, but I didn’t know Nat helped.”

            “Couldn’t have done it without her.” Steve vaguely remembers Victoria Hand. “Stark said—when he called—did he say she was dead?”

            Coulson shrugs. Suddenly he looks old and tired. “I can’t say what he did or didn’t say when he called you—didn’t even know he’d called you. But yeah, she’s dead.” A harsh, bitter note comes into his voice. “Ward killed her.”

            “This the same Ward that tried to kill Fitz and Simmons?”

            “Yeah.”

            Steve feels his hands curling into fists. He’s never met Fitz, and he barely knows Simmons, but he doesn’t like bullies. Never has, never will. And the young woman downstairs, the one who threw herself into Stark’s arms crying…“Is he dead?”

            Coulson shakes his head. “In custody. And, hopefully, in excruciating pain. May nailed his foot to the floor and fractured his larynx. But alive.” His lips thin. “He doesn’t deserve the mercy of a quick death.”

            Steve remembers the file he read on Sam’s laptop, just before answering Stark’s call. “If you’d been the one to catch up to him…would you have let him live?”

            Coulson hesitates. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “Probably. But at the time, I didn’t know how badly Fitz was hurt.” His eyes darken. “If I had…”

            “I read the file,” Steve says quietly, knowing he has to tell Coulson why he asked. “About what happened in Bayda. The Synosius.”

            Coulson closes his eyes briefly, putting his hand against the wall to support himself. “Yeah,” he half-whispers. “If I’d known about Fitz, and I’d been the one to catch up to Ward, instead of going after Garrett…it probably would have ended up kind of like that.”

            Steve swallows. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

            “No, it’s fine.” Coulson takes a deep breath and looks up at Steve. “You know…I probably couldn’t have told anyone else that. Even Clint. They all think I’m such a good man…”

            “You are,” Steve says, quietly and sincerely.

            “No. I’m not. I would have been willing to kill Ward if I’d caught him. I would have killed him _anyway,_ once I found out about Fitz.” Coulson looks torn between anger and despair. “The only reason I didn’t was because he was already in custody. You don’t kill prisoners. You just…don’t.”

            “And that’s what makes you a good man.” Steve reaches over and puts a hand on Coulson’s shoulder. The man looks at it, then up at Steve, his expression curiously vulnerable. “Ask yourself. If the situation were reversed—if Ward had had you at his mercy—would he have hesitated to kill you?”

            “He’d have _hesitated,_ ” Coulson says slowly. “But he would have killed me anyway. If Garrett had told him to.”

            Steve nods. “That’s the difference between good and evil. Good men know when to show restraint and mercy. They also know when to take a life and when to spare one. But they _also_ take care of those they care about. We’re a lot alike, you and I. It’s not like I’ve never wanted to kill somebody before—especially someone who hurt somebody I love. I’ve lost my temper a lot over the last couple of weeks. Smashed a possessed computer all to hell—”

            Coulson starts. “I’m sorry, what?”

            “But I wouldn’t have killed someone who was bound and helpless, or in custody,” Steve continues. “No matter how angry I was. And you didn’t, either. Not because you were told not to. Because you genuinely want to do what’s right. And that’s what makes us what we are.” He smiles a little wistfully, remembering Peggy’s words. “Not perfect soldiers, but good men.”

            Coulson takes a deep breath. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice shaky. “You—you have no idea how much that means to me.”

            “Yeah,” Steve says softly. “I do.”

            They stand in silence for a moment. Finally, Coulson says, “I—uh—I guess you didn’t come up here for me to yell at you, thinking you were someone else.”

            Steve shakes himself. “No…actually, I was looking for Barton. I…I don’t know if he told you or not, but—I was the one who told him you were dead. And then I never checked up on him again. That wasn’t right.” He tries to smile. “Speaking of not being a good man. I think I owe him an apology or six.”

            Coulson glances upward, then nods with obvious reluctance. “I better get downstairs. Fitz is resting, and I…I don’t think it does him much good if we just sit there and watch him sleep.”

            “Probably not,” Steve agrees. He takes a step back. “I think you’ll like Sam, by the way. He’s a good guy.”

            “If he’s a friend of yours, I’m sure I will.” Coulson manages a smile. “Looking forward to catching up with you.”

            “Likewise.” Steve gives Coulson a nod, then continues climbing upwards.

            It’s dark by the time he reaches the roof. There’s a faint glow in the distance from the nearest city—the house is actually a mile or two outside of Malibu—but it’s a new moon, so there’s no illumination, just the stars overhead. Steve stands still for a moment, giving his eyes time to adjust. In a minute or two, he’s able to make out a figure standing near the edge of the roof, seemingly relaxed. But Steve is a trained soldier, and he’s also a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent even though there isn’t any S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore, and he can see that the figure is poised to spring at any minute, an arrow held loosely to the string of a bow.

            Steve takes a few steps forward. “Barton.”

            There’s no response. Steve tenses and moves closer, instantly going on the defensive, wondering if there’s some new HYDRA weapon that paralyzes without leaving outward marks. Or maybe it isn’t Barton. “Hey,” he calls, louder.

            The figure jumps and whirls around, arrow instantly nocked. “Who’s there?”

            Steve holds up his hands in as non-threatening a gesture as he can. “Barton, it’s me.”

            “Rogers?” Barton relaxes the arrow. “Sorry. You startled me.”

            “I called your name,” Steve says.

            Steve’s eyes have adjusted enough to see the flash of panic that crosses Barton’s face. “I didn’t hear,” he says, almost to himself.

            “I’m sorry.” Steve closes the distance between them and studies Barton. “In more ways than one. Are you okay?”

            Barton nods, lowering his weapon. “I am now.”

            Steve hesitates. “Is that ‘now’ as in ‘now that you know who I am,’ or ‘now’ as in ‘now that you’re not drinking yourself into oblivion every night’?”

            Barton smiles slightly. “It’s ‘now’ as in ‘now that I know Phil’s alive.’”

            Steve smiles in reply. “I can understand that.” His smile disappears. “You’re lucky, you know.”

            Barton stops smiling, too. “Want to join me?” he asks, indicating the edge of the roof.

            Steve doesn’t think twice, he just walks over and sits down on the edge of the roof. Barton’s chosen the part overlooking the ocean, which makes no sense if he’s watching for attack but makes perfect sense if he’s thinking about the fact that Stark’s security system will warn him if anyone even _thinks_ about coming near them and just wants to talk. They sit in silence for a while, watching the faint crests of phosphorescence on the waves.

            Finally, Barton speaks. “I didn’t know. Not until…a week ago, I think.”

            Steve doesn’t need to ask _what_ he didn’t know. “I gather that Fury was trying to keep it pretty quiet.”

            “May told me you had to be Level Seven to know.”

            “Yeah, well, just having Level Seven clearance isn’t enough, obviously. I’m—I _was_ Level Eight.”

            “You’re still Level Eight,” Barton corrects him. “Unless you’ve resigned from S.H.I.E.L.D.”

            Steve stares at Barton. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s gone.”

            Barton stares right back. “You mean no one’s told you yet? Phil’s rebuilding it. From the ground up. Fury asked him to, _personally._ Not just to head up the rebuild, but to lead the whole organization.”

            “No,” Steve says, astonished. “No one told me that.”

            He’s not astonished that Fury picked Coulson to head up the rebuild. Not exactly. After all, Coulson is a good man and a good S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He’s smart and skilled and a natural leader, and it’s obvious he cares about his team. Steve can recognize those qualities because they’re all ones he possesses himself, and _he’d_ follow Coulson to the jaws of hell and back, so he’s not surprised that Fury would pick Coulson to take charge of the new S.H.I.E.L.D.

            What astonishes him is that Coulson didn’t say anything. Granted, they only talked for a minute or two, and they were trying to keep it quiet so that Fitz didn’t wake up, but there was no clue to Coulson’s new status. Coulson didn’t exactly refer to S.H.I.E.L.D., but he did refer to his team members as “Agent”. Yet he didn’t correct Steve when Steve called _him_ “Agent.” He never said a word about the rebuild. He seemed—he was—he _is—_ exactly what he was the last time Steve saw him. There’s a kind of bewildered humility about him. He doesn’t expect people to look to him or follow him, and he’s genuinely grateful that they do.

            Steve told Coulson they were a lot alike. But Steve knows that when he’s in charge of something, even if people don’t know he’s in charge of it, he tends to act confidently in command, at all times, issuing orders in a calm voice that nonetheless expects to be obeyed. Coulson isn’t like that. His status hasn’t changed him, hasn’t changed the way he interacts with others.

            It’s a sobering and totally humbling thought.

            “You must not have been here long then,” Barton says. “His team…they’re _so_ proud of him, Rogers. Not that they shouldn’t be, but…it’s like us. The Avengers, I mean. Face it, we _weren’t_ a team. Nat and I worked together because we’d done it before, but…Banner was a loner, Thor was a prince, Tony had an ego the size of Manhattan, and you’d only just woken up, hadn’t you? I’m surprised you were holding it together.” He looks back out at the ocean. “These guys…they’re a lot like that. Fitz and Simmons weren’t even technically cleared for fieldwork when he got them. On the flip side of that, May had _retired_ from active fieldwork, she was just an administrator. Skye was a _hacker,_ for God’s sake, they found her in a van trying to subvert S.H.I.E.L.D. and brought her in as a consultant, she only got promoted to a Level One agent a few weeks ago. And Ward, the son of a bitch, Phil told me that when they first formed the team he had the people skills of lukewarm cheese and the personality of a turd stuck through with knives. But they _learned._ They worked together and they were _good_ at it—because of Phil. He brought them together, he made them something.”

            Steve thinks back to his brief conversation on the landing with Coulson. “So naturally he blames himself for Fitz getting hurt and Ward turning out to be HYDRA.”

            “Wouldn’t you?” Barton says simply. “If one of the Howling Commandos had turned out to be a Nazi spy and had caused someone else to wind up on death’s door, wouldn’t you have blamed yourself?”

            “I didn’t say I wouldn’t have,” Steve answers. “Frankly, I’d have blamed myself if someone on the Avengers had turned out to be working for Loki—I mean _really_ working for him, not just brainwashes into doing it,” he adds hastily, worried that he might have offended Barton.

            Barton doesn’t seem offended. “I know you would. You and Phil are a lot alike. ‘S why Nat and I followed you during Manhattan the way we did. You’ve got similar leadership styles and similar personalities.”

            “I’m nowhere near as good a man as he is,” Steve says quietly.

            “You’re both brilliant men,” Barton continues, as if he hasn’t heard. “And you’re both—well—genuinely _good._ You know Phil’s idolized you since he was a kid—or at least he’s idolized Captain America since he was a kid—but he’s idolized you, Steve Rogers, since he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. and started learning more about you. He used to say he hoped he’d be half as good a man as you are someday. I think he is.”

            “He’s better,” Steve says again. “Like I said, I’m nowhere near as good a man as he is.”

            Barton freezes. In a carefully controlled voice, he says, “When did you say that?”

            It dawns on Steve that Barton really might _not_ have heard him. “After you said we had similar leadership styles and personalities.”

            “Oh, hell,” Barton says in a low voice. Before Steve can say anything, however, he continues in a normal tone of voice. “But—I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that he’s older. After all, you’re only—what, twenty-eight?”

            Steve nods, surprised Barton knows that. “Yeah. Well, I mean—”

            “I know, _technically_ you’ll be ninety-six in a month or so, if we’re going based on what year you were born. But you’ve only actually _experienced_ twenty-eight of them—well, closer to twenty-nine.” Barton runs a hand through his hair, which is a little shorter than Steve’s. “Phil’s been in S.H.I.E.L.D. longer than that. He joined right out of high school, and he’ll be fifty in about the same length of time—his birthday’s four days after yours. Nat’s already twenty-nine, her birthday was back in November, _and_ she was trained as an assassin starting when she was about eight years old, so she’s got more than twenty years of experience at this kind of thing—”

            “Wait. Coulson is _fifty?_ ” Steve repeats incredulously. “I thought he was—you know, closer to your age.”

            Barton looks amused. “He’s closer to my age than _you_ are. I’m forty-three.”

            “No—wait a minute—you’re older than Stark?” Steve is completely confused.

            “No, Tony’s six months older than I am. His forty-fourth birthday is—shoot, it’s in a couple of days.”

            Steve knows, logically, that he shouldn’t be surprised by this. Men in their forties aren’t _old._ They’re _experienced._ Most of the commanding officers in the war were in their thirties and forties. But he’s surprised all the same. “I—I’m sorry, I really thought you were all in your thirties. And I thought Natasha was younger than me…”

            Barton shakes his head. “Nope. You’re the baby, Rogers. But that’s my point. You think Phil’s a better man than you because you thought he wasn’t much older than you. You’ve got to realize that if your timelines had lined up, Phil could _literally_ have been your father. Nobody is _born_ knowing how to do all this crap.” He looks back out at the ocean. “Phil was about your age when I met him. You’re _exactly_ like he was back then, except…”

            “Except what?” Steve prompts, when Barton falls silent. He’s still incredibly startled by this, but now he’s genuinely curious.

            There’s a long silence, during which Steve can hear the waves breaking against the rocks. Finally, Barton speaks quietly. “When I met you, you might’ve been asleep for almost seventy years, but you were _asleep,_ so as far as you were concerned it hadn’t been more than overnight. And you’d only _just_ lost your best friend. You were bitter and scarred and jaded and _angry,_ and believe me, I don’t blame you in the slightest.” He looks over at Steve, his eyes full of pain. “Phil wasn’t like that. Not then. He’d never lost anyone he _really_ cared about. People got hurt, but never too seriously, and they were never…much more than colleagues. Friends, but not the kind you saw outside of work, you know what I mean? It wasn’t until a few years later that—that things changed.”

            Steve licks his lips. “What—what happened?” he asks, not sure he wants to know the answer.

            Barton sighs, looking back at the ocean. “Mission went wrong. I got captured. Tortured. Almost killed.” He closes his eyes. “Phil…bent a lot of rules to find me and get me back. He got a citation or two for that, but it was kind of half-hearted. Fury had a soft spot for him, even back then. And after that— _then_ he was more like you were when I first met you. Bitter. Jaded.” He looks back up at Steve. “It wasn’t until he almost got himself killed on a mission he shouldn’t have even been _involved_ in, six months later, that we were able to convince him to get help. He went to therapy for a while, did about a year of behind-the-scenes work, and finally got cleared to go back into the field. He learned to—make it all work for him. And that’s how he got where he is today.”

            Steve bites his lip, hard. “This wasn’t—this wasn’t Bayda, was it?”

            “No, it was Rovaniemi.” Barton frowns. “You know about Bayda?”

            “Read the file just before I came over. Sam and I were looking for any S.H.I.E.L.D. missions gone wrong that the Winter Soldier might have been involved with. He saw Natasha’s name and showed me the file.” Steve hesitates. “Did Coulson really…?”

            “We don’t talk about that,” Barton says immediately.

            “Sorry.”

            “But…yeah.” Barton puts a hand on his side, almost absently. “He saved my life. Again. And he told me what happened. Nat doesn’t know. Far as I know, he never even told Fury. “

            “But he told you,” Steve says, slowly.

            “We don’t keep secrets from one another,” Barton says simply.

            “Except, you know, for the whole not-dead thing,” Steve says without thinking. He regrets it instantly.

            But Barton shakes his head. “That wasn’t his choice. Fury didn’t want more people than necessary to know he was alive. He’d have told me if he could have.”

            “You’re a lot more forgiving than I would have been,” Steve admits.

            “I’m older. And I have more practice. Remember what I told you, about Rovaniemi? Phil and I’d had a major fight right before I went on that mission, hadn’t talked to one another for three days. And then I spent a week in a windowless cell being tortured, and he spent a week not knowing where I was…after that, we promised we wouldn’t go to bed, or to work, angry at one another. It’s not worth it.”

            “You guys are that good friends?” Steve asks.

            Barton goes completely still. For a minute, Steve wonders what he’s said wrong. Then Barton says, so softly Steve almost misses his words, “I forgot you didn’t know. We’re more than friends.”

            “How much more?” Steve asks.

            Barton turns to look Steve directly in the eye. “As of yesterday morning, he’s my fiancé.”

            Steve feels a genuine grin spread across his face. In the midst of all the pain and destruction and terror, something good has come. “Hey, that _is_ good news. Congratulations.”

            “Thanks,” Barton says, smiling, but Steve notices his shoulders relax slightly. “But…yeah, that’s why I forgave him after Rovaniemi, why I forgave him for not telling me he was alive, why I’ll forgive him in a day or two when he and his team leave and go back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. rebuilding. I love him. I love him too much to stay mad at him, and I don’t want him to ever doubt how much I love him.” His smile disappears. “What we do…you know how dangerous it is as well as I do. I know that every time we see each other could be our last. I’ve got to make it count.”

            Steve hesitates. Memories flood his mind—things left unsaid, things left undone. Chances he deliberately let slip through his fingers, telling himself there would always be another time, there would always be a better moment, when he was a little stronger, when things were a little more settled, when he came back, when they got back from the next mission, when the war was over. So much regret, so much pain.

            “How long was it?” he blurts.

            Barton looks surprised. “What do you mean?”

            Steve bites his lip, but he knows he has to keep going. “From when you realized how you felt about Coulson—when you realized you loved him—to when you told him. How long was it?”

            Barton hesitates. “I was _attracted_ to him from the first,” he says slowly, “but I think—I don’t think I realized I was actually in _love_ with him for a few months after that. Didn’t tell him until…maybe a year and a half later. I know we’d known each other for two years at that point.”

            “Two years,” Steve repeats. “You’ve got more chutzpah than I do. I don’t think I’ve ever said those words, no matter how much I meant them…”

            “Yeah, well, I was drunk at the time, too.” Barton cocks his head slightly. “But I’m pretty sure Peggy Carter knew how you felt without you having to tell her.”

            “I wasn’t thinking of Peggy,” Steve admits.

            Barton studies him for a long minute. Finally, he says, “You know, you surprise me.”

            “Me? Why?” Steve frowns slightly.

            “You’re taking this so—calmly. I gotta admit, I expected you to…I don’t know what. But I know what the—predominant attitude was towards homosexuality in the forties.” Barton rubs the back of his neck. “You seem like a decent guy—you _are_ a decent guy—but at the same time, I’m…surprised it doesn’t seem to bother you, even a little.”

            Steve fights back the sudden surge of panic and tries, tentatively, “I’ve been in this century for a couple of years now.”

            “Yeah, but…you know how they say the past is a foreign country?” Barton asks. Steve nods, he’s heard that phrase before. “Well, I’ve traveled a lot for my job. I’ve been to India, and they put fried eggs on _pizza._ I can’t stand it. It’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen in my life. Even if I’d lived there for two years…I might know it’s something normal over there, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wrinkle my nose whenever I saw it.” He sighs. “I’m explaining this badly, but you get what I mean.”

            “Yeah…yeah, I think I do,” Steve says, cautiously.

            “So I guess…I mean, it’s not like things are _all_ better now. There might be nineteen states where same-sex marriages, or civil unions or whatever, are legal, but there are twenty-eight where the state constitutions expressly forbid them. Some states, you can still get fired for being homosexual. And it’s not like growing up as a gay kid in the seventies and eighties was easy. But it would have been a hell of a lot worse in the forties. But you—you seemed like you genuinely meant it when you congratulated me. You must’ve been a hell of a lot more accepting than most people in your day.”

            “Yeah, well…” Steve sighs deeply. “Hard not to be. Not accepting homosexuality would mean not accepting—” He stops, realizing how much he’s actually said.

            “Not accepting yourself?” Barton asks gently.

            Steve looks up into the other man’s eyes and realizes that he knew. He probably knew the minute Steve said _congratulations_ instead of backing away. But he waited for Steve to decide to tell him. Had Steve held out, he would have remained silent on the subject.

            “Yeah,” he says softly. “I’m—I think the term is bisexual? That’s the one I’ve heard…but, you know, I didn’t really understand that…back then. I always thought I was a f—that I was gay, and I…I kind of hated myself for it. I think I tried too hard with the girls Bucky was always trying to hook me up with, because they weren’t what I wanted. I’d have dreams—” He breaks off, feeling his cheeks get hot at the memory of the _intensity_ of some of those dreams, and he cuts his gaze away. “So I never told—anyone. And then I met Peggy, and I _did_ fall for her pretty hard, so I figured I was…fixed. But then I—I realized I wasn’t, that I still had feelings for—for guys too.” _One in particular,_ his treacherous mind reminds him, but he tries to ignore it. “And it…confused the hell out of me. It’s only within the last year that I’ve found out that…that there isn’t anything wrong with it, that there are a lot of people who…feel like this.”

            “Somewhere between one to two percent of the population, I’ve heard,” Barton replies. “Statistics are hard to gather because so many people won’t talk about it, but yeah, I read somewhere that it’s something like one in sixty people.”

            “You?” Steve asks, a little uncertainly.

            “Oh, hell, no, I’m definitely gay.” Barton smiles slightly. “Phil’s bi, though.”

            Steve thinks this over for a minute. “I guess it’s just…I’ve never met anyone else who was…you know? At least not openly. Back then, if you weren’t straight, it was something to be ashamed of, something you could only indulge in back alleys and seedy bars and…it wasn’t _safe._ Hell, going to a working girl was safer than being fr—being gay.”

            Barton nods. “There are places where that’s still the case—even in the U.S. Just not as many.” He’s silent for a moment, then asks, “Did you ever…?”

            “No, hey, no.” Steve blushes again. “I…my health wasn’t too good back then. I got enough bumps and bruises taking on bullies…and I got sick too easily as it was. If I’d—gone to those kinds of places, I—I’d have had to explain to Bucky, and…” He trails off. He always longed to tell Bucky…but not like that.

            “And I’m guessing you never told—any of the guys you were crushing on.”

            “No,” Steve says softly. “I was…that was the one thing I was too scared to do. I was afraid to lose him.”

            Barton looks at him for a long moment, but doesn’t say anything. Finally, he asks, “What about since you woke up? Have you…said anything? _Done_ anything?”

            “Too busy,” Steve says. It sounds lame to his own ears, even lamer than the way he said it when he put off yet another of Natasha’s ubiquitous attempts to set him up with girls.

            “Try again.”

            Steve admits that he should have known he wouldn’t get away with that; he doesn’t have a convenient plane to jump out of. He briefly considers leaping off the roof before realizing that, if anyone is capable of understanding his inner thoughts, it’s Barton. “I guess…part of it is that I’m still kind of scared. Twenty-six years of fear and shame…you don’t just shake that off in a matter of months. It’s partly of what might happen and partly of what people might say. You know, you’re—you’re the first person I’ve ever told.” He swallows. “But mostly, it’s—like you said, it’s been almost seventy years for the rest of the world, but only a couple for me. I told Natasha, while we were on our way to New Jersey, that it’s hard to find someone with shared life experiences, but…it’s not just that. It’s…there was—there was someone in particular, and…”

            “And it seems disloyal to even think about someone else,” Barton completes. “Not so soon. Part of it is that you’re hurting, because he was so important to you, and now he’s gone. Part of it is that you’re angry, irrationally angry, because he _left_ you and he wasn’t supposed to ever do that. And part of it is that you just can’t imagine loving anybody else.”

            “That’s exactly it. How—” Steve looks up and breaks off mid-question. Barton has turned back out to the ocean, and on his face is a look of such terrible pain and loneliness that it takes Steve’s breath away for a minute.

            And then he remembers that Phil Coulson died less than two weeks after Steve woke up, and that Clint Barton spent the ensuing two years alone. Of _course_ he understands. Of course he knows exactly how Steve feels—and worse. All Steve lost was potential, something he never dared mention, something that probably would never have been reciprocated anyway. Barton lost something _real,_ something he’d had and depended on for twenty years. He remembers Stark telling him that Barton spent eighteen months drinking the pain away a little at a time—remembers, too, that he thought he could talk to Barton, _help_ him.

            He really is an idiot.

            “I—I’m sorry,” he falters. “I didn’t mean—”

            Barton shakes his head quickly. “It’s all right. Anyway, I’m the one who ought to be apologizing to _you._ I got Phil back, he’s alive, he’s _here._ You—” He turns to look at Steve. “It was Barnes, right? Your—your someone. The one you lost.”

            Steve blushes slightly. “Yeah,” he says quietly.

            “Then seriously, Rogers…I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

            “Yeah, you—you kinda can.” Steve takes a deep breath, knowing he has to tell Barton, especially now that he’s laid himself bare. “He’s alive.”

            Barton goes still. “I beg your pardon? I thought—didn’t he fall off a train?”

            “Yeah,” Steve says, for the third time in a row. “But…you know HYDRA had done experiments on him before I found him. Apparently it—it enabled him to survive the fall. They found him. They replaced his arm with a metal one, they put him in cryonic freeze…except when they needed him for something. And they—they wiped his memory, they brainwashed him.” Tears flood his eyes and he looks helplessly up at Barton. “He’s—they call him the Winter Soldier.”

            “Oh, God,” Barton murmurs. He reaches over and grips Steve’s hand tightly. “That’s—I’m so sorry, Rogers.”

            “He’s still in there,” Steve says. The tears start rolling down his face and he doesn’t care. “I know he is—he’s trapped in there, Barton, buried somewhere under everything. He—he saved my life.”

            Barton lets go of Steve’s hand. “Tell me about it.”

            Steve does. He probably goes back a lot further than he should have, telling Barton about growing up with Bucky in Brooklyn, about all the times Bucky would stay the night when Steve’s mom had to work late, about Bucky pulling him out of alleys and cleaning him up after fights and doing everything he could to pull Steve through illness after illness, about feverish nights when everything hurt and nothing seemed real except Bucky’s hand on Steve’s head, cool and soothing and gentle. He talks about the early days of the war, how he wanted so badly to go overseas and _make a difference_ and Bucky kept telling him he was an idiot, the hopelessness he felt when Bucky went overseas and he had to stay behind again, how hard it had been to let him go, the way he’d prevaricated in his letters, hoping to make Bucky think he was still in New York and safe. He tells Barton about finding Bucky in that HYDRA facility, about how badly he’d wanted to throw himself into his best friend’s arms and kiss him senseless but how he knew that was a stupid idea at _any_ time but _especially_ when they were in enemy territory and he was trying to save his best friend from torture. He tells him about drinking at the bar, about convincing Bucky to join the Howling Commandos, about how Bucky was the only one who never seemed to notice, or care, what the serum did to Steve—he still protected him just as much as before, only there wasn’t any need for Bucky to literally wrap himself around Steve to keep him from dying during a sloppy New York winter. He admits that he missed that. He talks about Bucky falling from that train, about how his last thought before the plane crashed was _at least now I’ll get to see Buck again_ , about how much it hurt to wake up and know that he couldn’t even die properly, about trying to bury the pain and the misery and be the hero Fury and Coulson and everyone else expected him to be when New York was in danger, how he’d actually _welcomed_ Stark being an asshole because it gave him a vent for his anger.

            While he’s telling Barton about rescuing Sitwell and the others from Batroc, his voice cracks. Barton never interrupts him, never shows the slightest impatience, only moves a little closer and wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulders. It’s what Bucky always used to do when they were kids, and Steve can’t help it, he leans into Barton as he keeps talking. He tells him about Project Insight, about Fury being in his apartment when he was shot, about struggling not to fall apart in the hospital when he was told that Fury was dead, about the meeting with Pierce and Natasha’s offer of help. He tells him about the S.H.I.E.L.D. base at his old training camp in New Jersey, about the old computers with Zola’s essence uploaded into them, about almost getting blown up and going on the run and winding up at Sam’s house. He talks about the bridge, and his voice cracks again and he breaks down, and Barton still doesn’t say a word, just hugs him silently until he’s able to choke out the rest of the story, about accidentally taking the Winter Soldier’s mask off and discovering it’s Bucky, about finding out that Fury was still alive and leading Natasha and Sam after the Winter Soldier and the infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the destruction of the helicarriers. He tells him every last detail of his encounter with Bucky, how he saved his life, how he refused to fight him, how he dropped his shield, how he was willing to let the Winter Soldier kill him rather than hurt his best friend…how the Winter Soldier had let him fall into the Potomac River, but Bucky dived in and saved him…

            “He’s still in there,” Steve insists, his tears largely spent now, too exhausted to do anything but lean limply against Barton. “I know he is. They brainwashed him, but…but he’s still there, he still remembers me. I can save him. I _have_ to save him. Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky…” His hand reaches up, trembling, to touch the dog tags.

            “If anyone can save him, you can.” Barton’s voice is quiet, but it carries absolute conviction. “From everything you’ve told me, you’re absolutely right. He’s still in there. And he’s still your friend.” He rubs Steve’s arm gently. “You know it won’t be easy, right?”

            “I know,” Steve says, a little weakly. “But it’s—it’s not like with you. There’s no _magic_ here. It’s all science. They probably had to keep wiping him, because when he came back the second time he was…different, blanker. Like he’d started to remember and they’d wiped him again. I think—maybe the longer he’s out, the more he’ll remember…”

            “I think you’re right. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s got a lot that needs to be undone.” Barton hesitates. “The thing is…the longer he’s out, the more he’ll remember, sure. But it won’t just be you he remembers. It won’t just be the good things.”

            Steve sits up. “What do you mean?”

            Barton sighs. “When I first came around from Loki mucking around in my mind…I didn’t remember much. Fragments. Impressions. Natasha’s laugh, Phil’s  smile, the smell of the fireplace in the cabin up in the mountains where he and I stayed a few years ago. The feel of his arms around me. That was the good stuff. But I also remembered fighting, I remembered attacking agents, people who’d been my friends, obeying what Loki wanted. The memories of what I’d done while I was…possessed, I guess…came back faster than the memories of before. And I was only brainwashed for a day or two.” He turns to look at Steve, his expression serious. “Barnes has been brainwashed for almost seventy _years._ He’ll remember who he was beforehand—eventually—but he’s also going to remember everything the Winter Soldier ever did. That’s not going to be easy for him. Or for you. I’m asking you seriously, Rogers. Are you prepared to learn _exactly_ what your friend has done? The people he’s hurt—the people he’s killed? Are you prepared for _him_ to know that?”

            “He didn’t—it wasn’t—”

            “I know he didn’t do it intentionally. I know it wasn’t his choice. Nobody knows that better than I do. But I _also_ know that won’t matter a tinker’s damn. Whether he wanted to do those things or not, he _did_ them, and he’s going to have to live with that for the rest of his life. And he’s not going to want to hear you telling him that it wasn’t his fault. He’s going to want you to listen to him when he falls apart, hold him when he cries, and help him do whatever he can to make amends. And if you can’t do that…you might as well just let him go, Rogers. He’s never going to be exactly the same as he was in New York. But then, neither are you. Are you going to be able to handle the differences and love him anyway?”

            It’s the word _love_ that sends steel down Steve’s spine, that stiffens his resolve and makes the decision the easiest one he’s ever had to make. “Yes,” he says, quietly but firmly. “I love him. It doesn’t matter what he’s done, or what he’s become. The man I fell in love with is still in there, and I’m prepared to deal with whatever I have to if it means I get to keep that.”

            Barton smiles, his eyes crinkling upwards at the corners. “Then if there’s anything you need from me, just say the word.”

            Steve looks at Barton, then feels a smile cross his own face. “You’ve already done more than I could have ever asked.”

            “Well, if there’s anything else, you know where to find me.” Barton puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

            Steve doesn’t say that he’s not alone—he has Sam. He understands what Barton means. “Thanks, Barton.”

            “You can call me Clint. I think you’ve more than earned the right to call me by my first name.”

            “If I’m calling you Clint, you might as well call me Steve,” Steve says slowly.

            “Deal.” Barton—Clint—holds out his hand.

            Steve clasps it gratefully. “Thanks, Clint. For everything.”

            Clint shrugs. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

            Steve smiles. “Right.”

            Clint glances upwards at the sky. “Getting late. We should probably head in…I guess you’re spending the night?”

            Steve hesitates. “I…”

            “Steve, it’s _late._ You don’t need to fly eight hours west, spend a couple of hours here, and then fly eight hours back. Even super soldiers need to sleep _sometime._ And Tony and I have really been worried about you. C’mon, even Nat’s spending the night.”

            Steve can’t help but smile. “You know, she _really_ hates being called Nat.”

            “I know. That’s why I do it.” Clint grins and gets to his feet, then holds out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go in.”

            Steve accepts Clint’s hand. To his surprise, the shorter, older man hauls him to his feet easily. “How do you do that?” he blurts.

            Clint laughs. “It’s all about leverage. And I’m stronger than I look. Takes a good amount of force to draw back a bowstring.” He claps Steve on the back and leads him towards the door.

            Steve pauses before they go in. “You know, when Stark first invited us out here…I thought that maybe I could talk to _you,_ since I kind of knew what you were going through. Or I thought I did. I—I never expected _you_ to be the one helping _me.”_

            Clint smiles slightly. “Guess you’ve been fooling the rest of us for so long you’ve started to fool yourself.”

            “I’m sorry?” Steve says, confused.

            “We all—even Fury, I’d imagine—tend to forget that you’re not _actually_ ninety-six,” Clint points out. “Everyone expected you to be able to deal with it on your own, to be the strong, capable one. The thing is, everyone needs help from time to time. You more than most, I suspect. Like I said, Steve, you don’t have to do it alone.”

            “I’m starting to realize that,” Steve says quietly.

            Clint puts his hand on the door, but Steve hesitates as a thought occurs to him. “Can I—ask you a personal question?”

            Clint turns back, one eyebrow raised. “Sure.”

            Steve opens his mouth to ask, but nerves get in the way, and what comes out is, “You don’t—I mean, you don’t have to answer if—if it’s _too_ personal…”

            “Steve,” Clint says gently. “Just _ask,_ huh?”

            “It’s just—” Steve swallows. “Coulson. Was he—you know, was he your—your first?”

            Clint’s features twitch briefly. He lets go of the doorknob and takes a step away from the door, closer to Steve. “No,” he replies quietly. “He wasn’t.”

            Steve licks his lips nervously. Bucky used to brag about the girls he’d been with all the time, he knows that even back when he was growing up people got around, they slept with people they weren’t married to and had no intention of ever marrying, and such things are much less shameful now. It’s different for someone like Steve, who’s known Bucky since they were kids and, if he lets himself think about it, has probably loved him almost as long.

            “How—I mean, how did you—?” Steve flounders over the question, not sure how to phrase it or even what he’s really asking.

            Clint seems to understand, though. Something on his face indicates that maybe he was waiting for Steve to ask. He crosses his arms across his chest as his eyes take on a faraway look. “I don’t know if you know this or not—probably not—but I grew up in a circus. Wasn’t Big Bertha, but it wasn’t one of your little mud shows, either. My brother got himself apprenticed to the big-cat act, Davey Sheed, King of All Beasts, but I just shoveled elephant shit while I tried to figure out what I wanted to be, if I wanted to be anything. I had a good eye and dead aim, but there aren’t a lot of opportunities in a circus for a marksman. Finally Bernie—my brother—suggested I might try the sideshow.”

            Steve frowns slightly. “That—sorry, that sounds like one brother insulting another to me. Calling you a freak…”

            “No, I know that’s what sideshows were like when you were a kid—the Bearded Lady and the Two-Headed Boy and the Blue Man and all that—but it’s not like that anymore. The midway is all about entertainment, perfectly ordinary people who can do extraordinary things, tricks and that sort of thing. At the time, the circus we belonged to had a pretty good midway, and one of the entertainers—the one Bernie told me he’d managed to get to agree to teach me—was a sword-swallower.” Clint smiles thinly. “I didn’t realize that was a euphemism.”

            “So—” Steve looks at Clint sharply. “He was…?”

            Clint nods. “My…second or third ‘lesson’ with him, I guess, he said something about my technique needing refinement. Then he whipped out a knife and held it to my throat, told me to do what he told me or I’d regret it. So my first time was…not exactly something I wanted. But…I put up with it, for almost six months, because I had to. Then I caught him stealing money from the show…he said he’d give me some if I kept my mouth shut. When I went to turn him in, he tried to kill me, failed, and left the circus. Bernie went with him—he couldn’t believe I’d turned down the money.” He looks Steve in the eye. “I _was_ with a couple of other guys—later—when it was _my_ choice, and when I was old enough to make that kind of choice. But to get back to your initial question—Phil wasn’t my first sexual partner, but he _was_ my first—and only—lover. He’s the only one who’s ever taken care of me, ever made an effort to make sure I enjoy it as much as he does.”

            Steve isn’t sure how he’s supposed to be feeling. He’s oddly touched that Clint trusts him with that kind of information about his past. He knows, instinctively, that Coulson is already aware of it, but he suddenly wonders if Clint’s ever said anything about it to Natasha. Probably not. She’s not the kind of person to dwell in the past, and someone so secretive about her own past probably knows, or cares, very little about the pasts of others around her, even her closest friends.

            Then some of Clint’s words filter through to his brain, and he stiffens. In a quiet, suddenly tense voice, he asks, “How old were you?”

            Clint hesitates, then admits in an equally quiet voice, “Fourteen. I was fourteen years old.”

            Steve feels his hands curl into fists again. “What kind of—”

            “He was a bastard,” Clint agrees, calmly—too calm, Steve thinks, even if it _has_ been thirty years. “But he’s dead, Steve. He was killed during a failed bank robbery five years later. So let it go, huh?” He pauses, unfolding his arms, and looks up at Steve with a faintly vulnerable look in his eyes. “You didn’t ask why it took me two years, and a generous helping of alcohol, to tell Phil how I felt about him. But that was why. Because of what _he_ did to me, I spent ten years thinking I wasn’t worth anything. The other guys I was with between him and Phil were one-night stands, guys who picked me up in bars in between missions while I was working as a mercenary. But from the moment I admitted to Phil that I’d fallen in love with him, he’s devoted himself to making sure I know _exactly_ how much he loves me. That, to him, I _am_ worth it. It’s been an uphill struggle, and I think that’s why losing him hit me so hard. Tasha’s a friend, and I knew I could count on her to have my back during a mission…but there has never been a single moment since I met Phil that I’ve doubted he would be there for me, on the job or off. He’s been, for me, what you are for Bucky Barnes. The one person who’s always believed in me—even when I couldn’t believe in myself.” He smiles softly. “Bucky might not know it yet, but he’s damned lucky to have you.”

            Steve feels a warm glow in his chest. He returns the smile. He can’t manage to get any words out, but it’s obvious from the expression on Clint’s face that no words are necessary.

            There’s a rumble of thunder from overhead. Steve looks up in surprise, but Clint just sighs. “Been waiting for that all day. Come on, let’s get in and make sure Tony’s not telling your friend too many embarrassing stories.”

            Steve laughs—he can’t help it. “I don’t know how long we’ve been up here, but I have a sneaking suspicion we’re already too late.”

            Clint laughs, shakes his head, and opens the door.

            Steve remembers to be quiet as he passes the third floor. As they get to the top of the flying staircase leading to the main floor, he sees Coulson pause at the landing below them, looking up, his expression one of mingled relief and anxiety.

            “I was just coming to check on you two,” he says. “Is everything all right?”

            “Everything’s fine.” Clint takes the steps two at a time—not jumping them, just casually stepping over every other step—and kisses Coulson. Coulson lets out a small, muffled noise of surprise, then kisses him back. It’s sweet and achingly tender, and Steve kind of feels privileged to be allowed to witness it. He can’t help the smile that crosses his face.

            After a moment, Coulson pulls back and touches Clint’s face lightly. “Sure?” he asks gently.

            “Sure,” Clint assures him. “Everything all right down there?”

            Coulson nods. “Nat and Tony are taking turns telling stories.”

            “I think you and I have vastly different definitions of ‘all right,’” Steve mutters.

            Coulson smirks up at him. Clint glances over his shoulder, just briefly, but there’s a flash of confusion in his eyes when he does that makes Steve curse inwardly. Coulson doesn’t seem to notice—unsurprising, as Clint is looking away from him. “I’m sure you could add nicely to the conversation.”

            Steve follows Clint and Coulson down the stairs. They slide their arms around one another’s waists, and Clint leans slightly towards Coulson, as much as he can without losing his balance. Steve suddenly wishes he had a sketchpad and pencil with him. He always loved sketching people, especially couples in Central Park on Sundays (and Bucky, but that’s another issue entirely). Clint and Coulson’s love for one another is obvious in every move they make, and Steve wants to immortalize it on paper.

            As they enter the living room, he hears Natasha talking. “—pretty easy to intimidate, actually. Sam told him to look down at his shirt because a trained sniper had a bead on him.”

            “I’m guessing that was you,” May says. She’s sitting at one end of a sofa, leg resting on her knee, leaning casually back against the armrest. “ _Did_ you actually have a sniper rifle trained on him?”

            Natasha, who’s sitting on a loveseat opposite May, grins roguishly. “Nah. Laser pointer.”

            “Just a regular one, right?” Skye says from her seat next to May. “Not—like—a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue cigarette laser?”

            Simmons actually lets out a snort of laughter, clapping her hand quickly over her mouth. Steve raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You guys still use those?”

            Sam, sitting at the opposite end of the sofa from May, turns and looks up at Steve, raising his eyebrows in a question. Steve nods slightly, letting him know that everything is all right. Natasha smiles, but she looks a little confused. “Still use what?”

            “The cigarette laser. It’s—well, it’s pretty much what it sounds like. Laser shaped like a cigarette, so if we ever got caught it would be less likely to get confiscated.” Steve smiles a little at the memory, painful as it is. “Dugan kept it mixed in with his regular cigarettes.”

            “They’re not exactly standard issue anymore,” Trip says. “We—my mom had all of Granddad’s old gear, so when Ward took the Bus, I went and sweet-talked her out of it.” He shrugs uncomfortably. “Use what you got.”

            Steve smiles. “Hey, it was designed to be used. Did it do you any good?”

            “Yeah, Coulson used it to hack into Cybertek’s files,” May says. A sudden smirk plays over her lips. “ _After_ Fitz accidentally set the curtains at the motel on fire.”

            Natasha cracks up. So does Sam. Even Trip and Coulson start laughing. Steve starts to smile, but freezes when he sees the look of pain on Simmons’ face. She’s trying to smile, but the memory obviously hurts her.

            Before he can say anything, though, Stark notices Simmons, too. He turns to Steve. “Hey, Capsicle, I know you’ve been busy the last couple of weeks, but did you hear about the theft at the Smithsonian? Some overzealous fanboy stole your old costume off the display there.”

            This sends Sam into a fresh wave of laughter. Steve can’t help but smirk. “Yeah…not exactly a fanboy. That was me.”

            Stark’s eyes widen, and then he grins. “Are you kidding me?”

            “Nope. You’re going to war, you need a uniform.” Steve leans over the back of the sofa. He cuts out the painful parts—the bit about the Winter Soldier, and especially about him being Bucky—and he’s careful not to mention Fury, but he describes the ridiculously cloak-and-dagger scheme Natasha planned out for him, and the much simpler one he actually implemented.

            It makes Simmons smile, which he counts as a victory.

            Skye glances at Natasha when Steve finishes. “You didn’t finish telling us about Sitwell. Did he help you after you drew on his tie with a laser pointer?”

            “Yeah. Well,” Natasha amends, “he took a _little_ more convincing after that.”

            “How’d you convince him?” Skye presses.

            “Steve threatened to throw him off the roof.”

            Skye’s eyebrows shoot up. Trip looks curiously at Steve. “I wouldn’t have thought you were the kind of guy who would actually throw someone off a rooftop.”

            “I’m not,” Steve answers. He points at Natasha. “She is.”

            “And she did,” Sam adds.

            Natasha looks rather proud of herself. Coulson, however, looks horrified. “Nat!”

            “I wouldn’t have _actually_ killed him,” Natasha protests. “Not _that_ easily, anyway. Besides, we needed him. Sam caught him and brought him back onto the roof. After that, getting him to cooperate was no problem at all.”

            May cocks her head at Sam. “I’m curious. How did you manage that? You haven’t been…”

            “No, no,” Sam says quickly, holding up a hand. “Hell, no. We…broke out some of my old gear from when I was serving in Afghanistan.”

            “What kind of gear?” May presses.

            “Uh…” Sam looks a little embarrassed. “Ever heard of the EXO-7 Falcon project?”

            “That was _you?_ ” Stark blurts.

            “That was me,” Sam confirms.

            “What, exactly, _is_ the EXO-7?” Coulson asks, taking a seat in the only available armchair. Clint perches on the armrest next to him.

            “Prototype personal flight device,” Stark answers. “Alternative to jetpacks. They’re basically robotic wings, modeled after falcon wings, hence the ‘Falcon’ designation. Stark Industries developed the initial schematics, but there were only two prototypes ever built. One got—” He falters, glancing at Sam.

            “One was destroyed in Afghanistan,” Sam says in a level tone of voice. “The other was locked up at the Pentagon. That’s the one we were using. It…kind of got a little damaged trying to take out the helicarriers.”

            “Got it with you? I can fix it,” Stark offers.

            “You _do_ realize we’re technically talking about stolen government property here, right?” Coulson points out.

             “We _did_ give it back,” Sam protests. “Technically. Just…you know, not exactly in the condition we borrowed it in. So to answer your question—no, I don’t have it with me.”

            Stark shrugs. “Not a problem. You guys are gonna be here overnight, at least, right? I could probably rebuild it in, oh, eight or nine hours. Upgrade the design, too. The tech’s a few years old.”

            Sam looks surprised. “That—would actually be really helpful. Thanks.”

            Stark grins and hauls himself to his feet. “Clint, when everyone’s ready to head up to bed, will you—?”

            “No problem,” Clint answers immediately.

            Stark nods at him. “Well, if I don’t see you before tomorrow—which I probably won’t—night, all.” He gives a wave and disappears.

            They end up staying in Stark’s living room for another hour, swapping jokes and lighthearted stories. Steve enjoys himself until Natasha starts talking, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, about trying to set Steve up with various S.H.I.E.L.D. agents or other women of her acquaintance.

            “Jeez, is it really that late?” Clint says suddenly, cutting her off in the middle of a sentence. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m wiped out. Steve, Sam, you don’t necessarily have to go to bed now, but why don’t I show you where you’ll be sleeping tonight?”

            “Thanks,” Steve says, straightening up and trying not to look _too_ relieved.

            Coulson glances at his watch, does a double-take. “Yeah, we—we should probably all get some sleep. Tomorrow we’re going to need to talk logistics.”

            “Logistics?” Skye repeats, putting her hands on her knees and pushing herself up.

            “How we’re going to get back to—how we’re going to get back,” Coulson corrects himself. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome as it is.”

            “You know you could never do that,” Clint says quietly, squeezing Coulson’s hand. “But I think I know what you mean. You guys have work to do.”

            “Yeah,” Coulson agrees. He looks around the room at his team. Steve wonders if it’s his imagination that his eyes linger on Simmons a little longer than on the others. “As much as I wish we could, we can’t do what needs to be done from here. We knew we’d have to go back sooner or later, and…I think it’s time.”

            Simmons bites her lip hard and looks down at her feet, but she nods. May reaches over and puts a hand on her shoulder. All she says is, “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

            Steve and Sam look at one another, but they don’t say anything. Steve anticipated spending one night, but he doesn’t think he can justify spending any more time than that. Like Coulson and his team, they have work to do. Steve may trust Clint implicitly, but he’s still not quite sure what to make of Stark.

            “Nat, you staying overnight?” Clint asks.

            Natasha scowls at him. “Dammit, Barton, I’ve told you about calling me Nat.”

            “Yeah, and?” Clint grins.

            Natasha rolls her eyes. “I’ve already been here longer than I meant to be. At this point, I might as well spend the night. Besides, I want to see what Stark pulls out of that lab of his.”

            “That’s the spirit.” Clint leads the way up the stairs.

            Steve expects he’s going to have a lot of trouble getting to sleep. He’s in a strange place, after all, and despite Stark’s reassurances about the security system, there could be danger, from without or within. Besides that, his conversation with Clint on the roof is probably going to go around and around in his head all night. It’s the first time he’s talked, _really_ talked, about Bucky—to anyone—and it’s certainly the first time he’s ever admitted how he feels about his friend.

            To his surprise, however, his eyes close as soon as his head hits the pillow, and he falls almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

            Steve is usually a light sleeper, both a habit from his Army days and a holdover from his younger years when he often awoke in the middle of the night due to a spasm of coughing. But there’s nothing to keep him awake here, and nothing to disturb his rest, so he has an uninterrupted eight hours of sleep.

            His eyes snap open and he sits up, instantly awake, when the first rays of the sun burst through the window of the room he’s been given. He looks around. The room is relatively small, but comfortable and well-furnished. The walls are pale blue, the furniture wooden and stained to a natural finish, and there’s even a small armchair in one corner.

            He gets up and walks over to the window, admiring the view. The room faces east, away from the ocean—it’s the first time he’s ever been on the west coast, so that’s a little unusual—and the sun is cresting over the trees. The storm of last night seems to have scrubbed the sky clean. It’s a truly beautiful sight.

            Steve wishes he could draw it.

            Almost before the thought has left his head, he glances at the dresser and notes, with surprise, a drawing pad and pencils lying on top of it. There’s a note on the top, in the same handwriting as the note in B.E.C.K.A. the day before, and Steve is startled at the simple words written on it: _I’d offer you all the tech at my disposal, but I know you’d never take it. I hope you’ll accept this as a gift from a friend. –Tony._

            He shouldn’t. He tries to tell himself that Stark is just trying to make him feel beholden to him—that he’s trying to ply him with _things._ But he keeps coming back to the last words of the note— _a gift from a friend._ Does Stark really think of him that way? Are they really friends?

            And if they are, wouldn’t it be rude of him to refuse?

            The beams of light from the sun start to spread out, and Steve caves. He picks up the drawing pad and pencils, sits on the end of the bed, flips open the pad, and starts to draw. At first, he’s worried that he won’t be able to do the scene justice; he’s never been very good at landscapes, especially with just regular pencils. But after a few moments, he stops worrying and just lets his hand guide the pencil across the page.

            By the time the sun is fully above the treetops, he stops and looks at the picture with a critical eye. It’s not half bad. He was always better at drawing people than at drawing landscapes, but this one didn’t turn out too badly. Smiling a little, he signs the corner, just out of habit, and flips the drawing pad closed before getting dressed.

            On second thought, he takes the pad and pencils with him when he leaves the room.

            He moves quietly down the hall. Most of the other guests, Clint told him the night before, are sleeping on the floor below him; he’d been offered the choice of sharing a bed (or sleeping on the floor) with Sam or having a room on the floor where the more permanent residents slept. He chose the latter, partly so Sam could have his own space and partly so he could face the rising sun and get up earlier. It doesn’t surprise him that Tony’s door, at the far end of the hall, and Clint’s door, immediately opposite his, are still firmly shut. No sound comes from behind either.

            As Steve passes the door at the top of the steps, however, he hears noise from within—a bed creaking, followed by a whimpering sound. Steve hesitates, wondering if he should go in—but then he hears a soft moan of “ _noooo_.”Instantly, he pushes the door open.

            The room is set up in a way that resembles a hospital room—a primitive one, but a hospital room nonetheless. There are a couple of oxygen tanks in one corner, obviously unused at the moment, and an IV drip stand with a bag of fluids attached to it. The line snakes into the arm of a young man, lying on the bed and obviously in the grips of a nightmare. His face is twisted in anguish, and he whimpers and moans as he twists feebly, trying to escape some imagined horror, his movements somewhat hampered by a cast on his arm.

            “No…please, no…” the young man pleads, his arm twitching as though he’s trying to ward off a blow.

            Steve’s heart is moved to compassion for the young man, whom he guesses to be the Agent Fitz everyone talked about yesterday. He pulls the door mostly shut behind him, crosses over to the bed, and shakes the young man’s shoulder gently. “Wake up, son,” he coaxes, keeping his voice as calm and soothing as possible. “It’s all right. You’re safe. Wake up.”

            The young man flinches away from Steve’s hand and comes awake with a gasp. His eyes are wide with terror and pain. “Who—“ he croaks out.

            Steve holds up his hand in a gesture of peace as he sits down on a chair next to the young man’s bed. “It’s all right. I’m a friend. My name is Steve Rogers.”

            “ _Captain_ Steve Rogers?” the young man gasps. He tries to sit up.

            “Whoa, there.” Steve gently presses the young man back against the pillows. “That’s right. Stark invited me out for a day or two…what’s your name?”

            “Fitz,” the young man says. “Agent Leo Fitz. Of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

            “It’s an honor to meet you, Agent Fitz,” Steve says.

            “The honor is mine, sir.”

            Steve wonders how old Fitz is, but decides not to ask. Instead, he says, “Want to talk about it? Your nightmare, I mean?”

            Fitz lies back against the pillow for a moment. At last, he says softly, “It was—did anyone tell you—what happened?”

            Steve nods. “Agent Simmons told me last night.”

            “It—I was dreaming about that,” Fitz says, his voice slightly hesitant. It doesn’t take much for Steve to realize that he’s having trouble catching his breath. “Everything was…happening in slow motion. I knew what was…going to happen, but I—I couldn’t stop it.” Tears flood his eyes. “I tried to tell Ward—tried to remind him—that we were friends—but he wouldn’t listen…”

            Steve understands _that,_ all right. He’s had more than one nightmare where he relives that moment on the helicarrier, trying to convince the Winter Soldier that he’s really James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s best friend. He touches the dog tags around his neck without thinking. “Was that how it really was?” he asks quietly.

            Fitz nods, slowly. “He wouldn’t listen. I know he’s…stronger than that…that he cares about us…but he wouldn’t listen…”

            Steve remembers both Simmons and Coulson telling him that Ward was part of their team, but up to this point, he’s assumed that Ward was only a reluctant team member, that he’d done his duty but no more than that. Now, however, he realizes that the team actually _trusted_ him.

            “Maybe he was brainwashed?” Steve suggests, thinking of Bucky again—and of Clint, leading up to the Battle of Manhattan. For Ward to have deliberately tried to kill someone he, purportedly, cared about…

            But Fitz shakes his head, the tears rolling down his cheeks. “No,” he whispers. “I thought of that…but no. He’s—he did it of his own free will. He thinks he…owed Garrett something…”

            “Who’s Garrett?” Steve asks, frowning.

            “His S.O.,” Fitz answers. “He…trained Ward, from the beginning. And he…was HYDRA. Pretty high up, I think. He tried to kill us all…when HYDRA first came out. And he’s the one who told Ward…to kill Simmons and me. I—I tried to reason with him…”

            Steve’s heart sinks. He should have asked more questions last night, but he thought he understood. Now he realizes how little he knew. No wonder Fitz was hurting so badly. It wasn’t just the physical pain. It was the psychological pain—the horror of having been betrayed, _blatantly_ betrayed, by someone he trusted. It’s not exactly the pain Steve feels about Bucky—after all, Bucky _really_ couldn’t help it, he didn’t have a choice in what he did. It’s more like how Steve feels about Rumlow. They weren’t insanely close, but they did have mutual respect for one another, and Steve even felt a little bit of liking for the man. And then Rumlow tried to kill him. Not just tried to kill him, but tried to kill him in the elevator at the Triskelion, in the middle of someplace Steve felt safe and _needed._ That’s a betrayal that’s hard to forgive.

            Fitz looks up at him, his eyes wide with sorrow. “Sir, do you—do you believe that people can be…totally evil?”

            “Yes,” Steve replies immediately. “I do. I’ve met truly evil men—men there’s no hope of redeeming.”

            Fitz’s face falls. He bites his lip, then asks, “But…they’re not _born_ that way…are they?”

            Steve hesitates at that. He thinks seriously. “No,” he says at last. “I don’t believe they are. Something had to happen to—to make them that way. Maybe it was something that was done to them. Maybe it was just the choices they made. But…nobody starts out totally evil. Nobody starts out hopeless. Everybody has the potential for good or evil. It all depends on circumstances.”

            Fitz relaxes. “You know—you’re the first person to say that,” he murmurs. “Everyone else…just keeps saying that…Ward can’t be trusted. That he’s evil…”

            Steve winces. “Fitz…I’ve never met Ward. I can’t say if he’s evil or not, if he’s beyond hope or not. But…honestly, I would probably trust Coulson’s word on the subject more than I’d trust mine.”

            “But—you’re Captain America,” Fitz protests. “You’re a hero…”

            “I’m just a kid from Brooklyn,” Steve says gently. “How old are you?”

            Fitz looks confused, but answers, “Twenty-six. I’ll be…twenty-seven in November.”

            “I’m only two years older than you,” Steve tells him. “If you’re counting years I’ve actually lived. I was twenty-six when I crashed that plane—twenty-six when I lost my best friend. I’ll be twenty-nine this July.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know anything, Fitz. I really don’t. I wanted to go to war because I don’t like bullies. I’ve stuck with S.H.I.E.L.D. in honor of the two most important people in the world to me—the woman who helped found it and the man who was willing to sacrifice himself for me. And I’ve made mistakes, plenty of them. Being a hero doesn’t make you perfect—it doesn’t mean you know everything.” He raises his eyebrows slightly. “You should know that.”

            “Why should I know that?” Fitz asks.

            “Because you’re a hero, too.”

            Fitz actually blushes. “I’m—I’m no hero.”

            “You are,” Steve insists. “Simmons told me you saved her life. You rigged up a distress beacon out of—what, spare parts and redundant equipment? You figured out how to get her oxygen, enough to get her most of the way to the surface, anyway. You told her to go, to save herself…”

            “She wouldn’t,” Fitz says weakly. “It was…stupid of her. She could have died…trying to save me. I told her to go…and she said…no, not without me…”

            Steve’s breath solidifies into pure pain. He hears the adamant, almost angry voice echoing in his mind: _No! Not without you!_ As if to demand how Steve dared suggest such a thing, how he could possibly believe that Bucky would leave Steve behind even if not doing so meant his own death.

            “Bucky said the same thing to me,” he says softly. “In the warehouse, when I first rescued him from HYDRA. I tried to get him to leave without me…and he refused. He was angry that I’d even consider such a thing.”

            Fitz’s eyes widen. “Really?”

            “Really.” Steve looks at Fitz. “And that makes him a hero, too. That makes Simmons a hero, that she refused to leave you, that she insisted there had to be another way. But it doesn’t make you any less of a hero. You were willing to sacrifice yourself if it would mean she would make it to safety.”

            “I love her,” Fitz says softly.

            “And I love Bucky,” Steve says without thinking. “The reason behind saving someone doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you were willing to do it. You _did_ do it. You saved her life.” He smiles slightly. “And you still believe in Ward, right? I’m guessing nobody else does. That kind of makes you a hero, too. That you’re willing to try to save somebody that everyone says isn’t the kind you save, he’s the kind you stop.”

            “What would you do?” Fitz whispers. “If you were…in my place?”

            Steve meets the younger man’s eyes, and he knows he has to be honest. “If I saw even a tiny spark of the person I knew, or thought I knew…I’d try to save him.”

            Fitz relaxes again. He shifts slightly, so that he’s not exactly lying on his side, but more of his weight is on his uninjured shoulder, the one closest to Steve, than square on his back. “I know he’s still in there.”

            “Then I have no doubt you’ll be able to save him,” Steve says seriously.

            They fall into an easy silence. Fitz closes his eyes; he’s not exactly asleep, but he’s definitely dozing. Steve looks at the reclining figure for a long moment, then finds himself automatically flipping open the drawing pad again.

            How many nights, he thinks as his hand guides the pencil across the blank page, did he do something like this? How many mornings did he stumble into the living room and find Bucky sprawled on the sofa where he’d collapsed after a late shift at the garage, not wanting to wake Steve by crawling into the creaky bed they shared because they couldn’t afford a two-bedroom apartment? How many times had he surreptitiously flipped open a sketchbook, how many angles had he drawn Bucky from?

            Fitz isn’t anything like Bucky, of course. He’s smaller, for one thing—closer to the size Steve himself had been before Erskine’s serum—and fair, with light, curly hair and paler skin. His face is more pointed, as opposed to Bucky’s almost square jaw, and he’s…there’s no other word for it, he’s innocent. He makes Steve think of rolling hills and green countryside. Part of that might have to do with his lilting Scottish accent, but it’s also something about his face, his expression, even in repose.

            It’s therapeutic in ways Steve hadn’t expected. Maybe part of it has to do with how long it’s been since he tried drawing at all, let alone from life. He’d drawn a picture of Bucky, the way he remembered him, when he was at the training camp in New Jersey, sent it to him on the back of a letter, but he hasn’t drawn since being injected with the super-serum. Maybe that’s the key to it. Captain America doesn’t draw, he’s just a super-soldier. But Steve Rogers does. Maybe drawing again helps him to relax, to go back to being that kid from Brooklyn, Bucky’s best friend, a tiny, wheezing, frequently-ill art student. As he draws, he…doesn’t _exactly_ forget HYDRA and the Winter Soldier and the betrayal of the last few weeks, but at least he’s able to push them to the back of his mind.

            “What are you doing?”

            The feeble voice almost makes Steve’s hand jerk, but he steadies it. “Just a sec.” He finishes off the last couple of lines, scribbles his signature in the bottom corner, and turns the pad around for Fitz to see. “There, what do you think?”

            Fitz looks surprised. “That’s…that’s me.”

            “That’s right.” Steve smiles. “Glad it’s recognizable. Been a few years.”

            Fitz looks from the drawing to Steve and back. “I—I didn’t know you drew.”

            “Yeah,” Steve says. “I was an art student before I went to war. Like I said, I…haven’t really done a lot of drawing since then, but…”

            “It’s good,” Fitz says softly. “It’s very good.”

            “Thanks.” Steve turns the pad around and closes it carefully. “Honestly, I’d forgotten how much I liked it. Drawing, I mean.”

            “Nobody ever talks about that,” Fitz says. “That you were an artist. They all talk about…your war record, and what you’ve…done since then. But not that you’re an artist.”

            Steve shrugs. “Captain America isn’t an artist. Steve Rogers is.”

            Fitz nods slowly. “I think I understand.”

            Steve smiles again. “I’m glad to hear that.”

            Fitz glances at his arm, then at the bedside table, then up at Steve. “Could I…ask you a favor, sir?”

            “Of course,” Steve says.

            “Would you—” Fitz swallows nervously. “Would you sign my cast?”

            Steve is touched. He picks up the marker on the bedside table, then hesitates. “Only if you promise to stop calling me sir. Steve is fine. I’m not _that_ much older than you, after all.”

            Fitz actually smiles. “Deal.”

            Steve leans over Fitz’s arm. There’s already a message on it, and he can’t help himself, he reads it quickly. The words touch him. _Every part of us was once part of something else—the stars, the trees, the animals. Whatever makes up our hearts must have come from the same place, because they are one. Love always, Jemma._

            Smiling to himself, Steve finds a clear space, thinks for a moment, and then writes a short message. _Heroes come in all shapes and sizes. You’re definitely one of mine. Thank you for being my friend. –Steve._ He quickly draws a small facsimile of his shield before capping the marker and setting it aside. “Hope that’s all right.”

            Fitz reads the message and blushes again. “Thank _you,_ ” he says softly. “It’s—it’s always good to make new friends.”

            He looks tired, so Steve pats his shoulder gently. “I’ll let you get some more rest, okay? But I promise I won’t leave without saying goodbye.”

            Fitz nods. “Thanks,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering closed.

            Steve waits until his steady, even breathing tells him that Fitz has fallen asleep, then quietly slips out of the room.

            He heads quietly down the stairs, not sure how long he was in Fitz’s room but not wanting to wake anyone up if they’re still asleep. However, as he reaches the bottom floor, he smells coffee and heads into the kitchen.

            Stark is puttering around. He looks up and gives Steve a smile when he comes in. “Morning, Cap. Sleep okay?”

            “Yeah, thanks. You?” Steve glances at the coffee pot.

            Stark waves him towards it. “Help yourself…no, I didn’t sleep last night. I’m kind of an insomniac anyway, and I…might have gotten a little carried away on the Falcon project. Finished about half an hour ago…I was gonna have your friend test it out, but J.A.R.V.I.S. told me that he and Trip went for a run.”

            Steve fights down the sudden surge of worry. Sam knows how to handle himself, and so does Trip, and if they’re together they’ll be all right. He considers, briefly, asking which way they went and running after them…but he rationalizes that that’s not necessary. Instead, he says, “For someone who was so concerned about me not getting enough sleep…”

            “Yeah, well, I’ll pay for it later,” Stark tells him. “Give me about two more days of this and I’ll fall asleep in the middle of the lab, and then I’ll wake up twenty-four hours later face-down in my own bed with my socks off.”

            “Does J.A.R.V.I.S. have the capability of transporting you from room to room?” Steve asks cynically.

            Stark grins. “Nah. Clint does.”

            Steve can’t help but grin in reply. “He’s a good guy.”

            “That he is,” Stark agrees. He watches as Steve pours himself a cup of coffee, then indicates the drawing pad. “I’m glad you found that.”

            Steve pauses, glancing down at the pad, then looks directly at Stark. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “It—means a lot to me. How’d you know I drew?”

            “Well, you mentioned it last night,” Stark points out. “But…” He hesitates, looking a little uneasy.

            “What?” Steve prompts.

            “It’s just…after you—after the crash, when everyone thought you were dead? Someone had to take control of your possessions. My dad and Colonel Phillips talked it over…they thought about giving your things to Peggy Carter, but they thought that might be too much. So Dad took custody.” Stark bites his lip. “They’re in storage…right now, everything you owned before the war is in a climate-controlled unit in…what is _currently_ Stark Tower.”

            Steve stares at Stark in surprise. “Are you kidding me?” he says weakly.

            Stark shakes his head. “No joke. I figure…I mean, most of it’s junk—old furniture, clothes that don’t fit you anymore, medicines you don’t need—but there are something like four boxes full of sketchbooks and drawing pads. I…kind of snooped through one of them, right after my dad died—and before I knew you were still alive,” he adds quickly. “I was really impressed. You’ve got one hell of an eye.”

            Steve swallows hard, wondering which sketchbook Stark looked through—or does he mean one _box?_ “Thanks. Uh—out of curiosity, what were the drawings of?”

            “Figure drawings mostly. A lot of couples. People sitting on benches, walking around, that kind of thing. Couple of nice fountains. I guess you did it in Central Park?”

            Steve relaxes. “Yeah. Saturdays, when the weather was nice and…you know, I wasn’t sick or anything…I’d head up there and spend the day drawing.”

            Stark smiles. “Any time you want those back, let me know.”

            Steve hesitates. “Mind keeping them for me? At least a little while longer? I—I’m hoping I might need them before too long…but until I do, I think they’re safer with you.”

            “Sure,” Stark replies immediately. And doesn’t press for Steve’s reasons, which impresses him. He returns to his puttering.

            Steve watches for a moment. Without really thinking about it, he sets down his coffee cup and flips open the drawing pad again. Stark glances at him, briefly, then ignores him completely, which actually suits him fine.

            He spends the rest of the morning that way, sitting in out-of-the-way corners and watching everyone. Nobody seems to notice; Sam salutes him when he comes in from his run, but he’s apparently chummed up with Trip and they spend most of their time talking. Natasha and May seem to be taking it on themselves to train Skye in unarmed combat. Clint and Coulson are never very far apart, as if they’re both dreading the separation they know is imminent (which, well, they probably are). Simmons is the last to come downstairs—presumably she’s been with Fitz—and her eyes are red-rimmed when she does; she sits by herself and doesn’t really talk to anybody.

            It’s not until close to eleven o’clock when Natasha notices him as she hops out of the sparring ring and asks, “Taking notes? It’s not like you’ve never seen me fight before.”

            Steve actually blushes and closes the cover of the drawing pad out of habit. “No, uh, actually, I was…just drawing.”

            “You draw?” Natasha asks, fascinated. She comes closer. “Can I see?”

            It’s on the tip of Steve’s tongue to tell her no. After all, Captain America _doesn’t_ draw; it’s not in keeping with the image S.H.I.E.L.D. cultivated for him. But then he thinks about all they’ve been through together, realizes that here in front of him is one of only a handful of people he trusts completely, and instead he says, “Sure,” and hands her the drawing pad.

            Natasha opens it and begins looking through the pictures. She doesn’t say anything and her expression never changes. Steve starts to get a little nervous, but he keeps his mouth shut, just watches her.

            Finally, she looks up. “These are really good,” she says quietly. “I especially like this one.” She hands him the pad back.

            It’s open to the drawing he did of Clint and Coulson. They’re sitting on the sofa in the living room. Coulson has a map or a book or something spread out on his lap, which he’s studying intently. Clint is curled against his side, resting his head against Coulson’s shoulder, and Coulson’s hand is absently tangled in Clint’s short hair. Steve was moved to draw the scene simply because of the fact that, even without making eye contact, it’s obvious they love one another deeply.

            “May I see?” asks May, coming over with Skye trailing behind her.

            Steve flips to the first drawing and hands it to May. Skye leans over her shoulder as the two of them look through the pictures. Skye’s eyes get bigger, and a genuine smile crosses her face the further along they go. “Did you go to art school or something? These are _really_ good.”

            “Yeah, actually,” Steve confirms. “I was an art student before the war.”

            “It shows. Why’d you want to go to war, anyway? You had a brilliant artistic career ahead of you.”

            Steve shrugs as May hands him the pad back and gives Skye the same reason he gave Erskine. “I don’t like bullies. I don’t care who they are.”

             May smiles slightly. “I can understand that. If I hadn’t joined S.H.I.E.L.D., I probably would have been a concert violinist. Even studied at Julliard for a while.”

            Skye gapes at May, but Steve returns her smile. “We’ve all got our hidden depths.”

            “I don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed of the fact that I have precisely zero artistic abilities,” Natasha says with a smirk. “But I’ve gotta say, Steve…I like the way you see me.”

            Steve looks at her steadily. “I just draw what’s there.”

            To his delight, she actually blushes. “If that’s what’s really there, I’m impressed,” she says softly.

            The four of them head back upstairs together. Sam, Trip, and Stark enter the living room at the same time, looking elated; Sam carries what looks like a small, square backpack in a mottled brown. He catches Steve’s eye and grins. “You’ve gotta try this thing sometime.”

            Steve guesses that the backpack is actually the set of wings Stark made the night before. “No, thanks. I’ll stick with my own equipment.”

            “Any time you need maintenance on it, just come by,” Stark tells Sam. “I’ll be here for…a while longer.”

            “Don’t you live here?” Sam looks confused.

            “Yeah, well…I’ve got a couple of places.” Stark’s smile disappears. He turns to face Steve, too. “I was telling Clint earlier this week…I’ve been thinking about re-outfitting Stark Tower and changing the name. I have a feeling the Avengers are gonna be needed a lot more often in the near future, and we need a base.”

            Steve raises an eyebrow. “That makes sense,” he allows. “You’re offering up Stark Tower?”

            “Yeah. Figured we’d call it Avengers Tower, just to make things simpler.” Stark rubs the back of his neck and glances upward. “It’s going to be a while before I can get out there, though. Fitz isn’t in any shape to be moved.”

            Steve nods soberly. “I noticed.”

            “We really appreciate you looking after him for us,” May says quietly. “Simmons was smart to have him brought here.”

            “He’s a good kid,” Stark says softly. His dark eyes are worried. “You know…”

            “Yeah,” May interrupts. “I know.”

            Steve doesn’t ask _what_ she knows. Instead, he turns to Sam and says, reluctantly, “We…we should probably get going soon. Eight-hour flight back to D.C. and all that.”

            Sam nods. “When do you want to go?”

            “Not before lunch,” Stark says firmly.

            Steve smiles slightly. “All right. As long as it’s edible.”

            Lunch turns out to be pizza, and it’s a little tense. Coulson and his team use the opportunity to discuss logistics for getting back to wherever their base of operations is—Steve assumes it’s yet another secret S.H.I.E.L.D. bunker, but he’s not going to ask questions. He might be a Level Eight operative, and Clint and Natasha might be agents as well, but Stark and Sam are only consultants. He keeps silent, eating the pizza—it’s New York-style, which he definitely appreciates—and listening to them batting around ideas. It’s hard not to notice that Simmons is definitely reluctant to leave, that Stark is actually seriously worried about letting them leave, and that Coulson and Clint are practically sitting on top of each other, obviously dreading the inevitable separation.

            “How’s the search for the Winter Soldier going, Steve?” Natasha asks around a mouthful of cheese.

            May freezes mid-bite. Coulson chokes on his coffee, practically snorting it out of his nose. “The Winter Soldier?” they repeat in unison.

            Steve decides to ignore both of them. “Slowly. We…might have a couple of leads. Sam had some good ideas about where to look. But…we haven’t found him yet.”

            “Who—or what—is the Winter Soldier?” Skye asks, frowning. Simmons and Trip look confused, too.

            “He’s a legend,” Coulson says, his expression somewhere between worry and anger and fear. “An assassin, a dangerous weapon. Most say he’s a ghost story, but I’ve—I’ve run across him a time or two.” He glances at Clint. “Remember what happened in Rovaniemi?”

            Steve stares at Clint in astonishment. The older man avoids Steve’s gaze as he nods. May speaks up, her expression serious. “Nobody knows if he, or it, is human or machine or something more. But he’s popped up in mission reports here and there for the last seventy years.”

            “He sounds like something you’d need more than two people to track down and take out,” Stark says, raising an eyebrow.

            “He _sounds_ like a HYDRA weapon,” Simmons says, her voice shaking slightly.

            “He’s my best friend,” Steve says softly.

            The room goes utterly silent. Coulson’s lips part in shock, and he blinks a couple of times. Skye’s eyes widen; Simmons’ fill with tears. Everyone but Sam, Clint, and Natasha stares at Steve as if he’s just announced that he’s HYDRA.

            It’s Trip who finally breaks the silence. “So he didn’t die.”

            “No.” Steve’s voice is still soft. “I guess whatever HYDRA did to him in that prisoner-of-war camp…their experiments with Erskine’s serum must have produced something close to what was used on me. He lived. They’ve been…freezing him, brainwashing him, only thawing him out to do missions they consider important.” He fights back the tears he can feel threatening to well up. “But he’s still in there.”

            “How can you be so sure?” May asks.

            “He saved my life. Dragged me out of the Potomac. I—I _know_ he recognized me. He knew me. He didn’t even know himself, but he knew me.”

            “‘You said my name before you said your own,’” Stark says, altering his voice as though he’s imitating someone else.

            Clint rolls his eyes. “ _Star Trek,_ Tony? Really?”

            “What about you? You recognized the quote,” Stark retorts.

            Coulson shakes his head, obviously bringing himself back to reality. “I—I had no idea…”

            “Nobody did,” Steve says. “I never would have recognized him if the mask hadn’t come off…”

            “Well, best of luck in your search,” Natasha says. “And if you need a hand, you’ve got my number.” With that, she changes the subject.

            It’s not until the meal is over and everyone is clearing the table that Steve manages to get near Clint. In a low voice, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            Clint doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t know what Steve is talking about. “Because you were hurting badly enough with what you _already_ knew the Winter Soldier had done. I didn’t want to add that to your burden, not yet.”

            “It wasn’t—”

            “I know.” Clint manages a smile and gives Steve a quick side-armed hug. “Just remember what I said about when Barnes starts to remember.”

            Steve nods. “I will. You—you don’t hold it against him?”

            Clint shakes his head. “No more than I hold it against the cell they had me confined in, or the torture devices they used. He was just a weapon. An intelligent one, to be sure, a sentient one even, but still just a weapon.” He looks at Steve for a moment. “And that’s going to be the biggest thing that helps him heal. That you’re going to treat him like the person he is, rather than the _thing_ they made him.”

            “Damn straight,” Steve says immediately.

            Clint claps Steve on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Steve Rogers. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

            “You know of many people who would?” Stark pops up suddenly beside them.

            “Tony, go play in traffic, would you?”

            Stark smirks and ignores Clint, turning to Steve. “B.E.C.K.A. is fully charged and fully tanked-up, and I’ve already programmed in the coordinates to the hangar. Just leave her there, I’ll recall her later tonight.”

            “Thanks, Stark,” Steve says gratefully.

            “Hey, anything for a friend.” Stark smiles. “You’ve got my number now. If you need anything—help running down a lead, transportation, money, even just someone to talk to—give me a call, all right? And if I haven’t heard from you by the time we’re ready to move into Avengers Tower, I’ll call you.”

            Steve nods. “Thanks,” he says again.

            “No prob.”

            Sam raises an eyebrow at Steve as he turns back toward the main part of the kitchen. “You ready?”

            “Give me a minute,” Steve replies. “I promised Fitz I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

            Coulson’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “You talked to him?”

            “Yeah, didn’t you—no, wait, you didn’t, did you?” Skye shoots Steve a slightly guilty look.

            “Didn’t what?” Coulson asks.

            “Didn’t—um—”

            “Didn’t see this.” Steve hands the drawing pad to Coulson as he passes him, heading for the stairs.

            Fitz is awake when he reaches the third floor, sitting propped against a mess of pillows and staring vacantly at the wall at the foot of his bed. He looks up when the door opens and manages a small smile. “You’re leaving, then?”

            “Yeah,” Steve acknowledges, coming closer. “I promised I’d say goodbye first, so…”

            “Yeah,” Fitz says. He swallows. “Are you—what are you working on? Something to do with S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

            “Not exactly. I’m trying to find a friend.” Steve sits down for a minute. “Bucky’s still alive.”

            “Bucky? Bucky Barnes?” Fitz’s eyes widen. “How do you know?”

            “I saw him,” Steve tells him. “He’s…he’s been brainwashed by HYDRA, which is why I asked you if there was a chance Ward had been. They made him into a weapon, a brainless super soldier, and…I have to save him.”

            “You can do it,” Fitz says softly. He reaches over with his good hand and touches Steve’s lightly. “If anyone can save him…you can.”

            Steve smiles. “That’s just what Barton says.”

            “He’s a good man,” Fitz says. “Him and Stark. They’ve been…very good to me.”

            “They’ll look after you. And I’ll see you again, Fitz. Our paths will cross again.” Steve’s smile widens. “After all, we’re both agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

            Fitz smiles in reply. “It’s an honor…to be on your team.”

            “The honor is all mine.” Steve squeezes Fitz’s hand before standing up. “Rest up. Get well. I’ll see you around.”

            “See you.” Fitz leans back on the pillows as Steve leaves the room.

            He gets downstairs to meet an astonished Coulson, still holding the drawing pad. “This…these are amazing,” he manages.

            Steve blushes. “Thanks. I haven’t drawn in a long time, but…”

            Coulson hands the pad back to Steve. “You’re really good at it.”

            “Thanks,” Steve says again. He looks down at the pad for a moment, then makes a decision, turns, and holds it out to Stark. “Could you do me a favor? Hang on to this for me?”

            Stark’s eyebrows shoot up, but he smirks as he accepts it. “Yeah, no sweat. Give you an excuse to come back.”

            Steve grins in reply. “Thanks, Stark.”

            “Any time.” Stark opens a drawer in a piece of furniture and slides the pad into it.

            Sam and Steve shake hands all around. Natasha doesn’t let them get away with that, though. She gives both of them bear hugs. “You two be careful, all right?”

            “That cuts both ways,” Sam tells her. “If I see your face on the eleven o’clock news, it better be because you’re telling another group of senators to go fuck themselves.”

            “Oh, why stop at senators?” Natasha smirks, but there’s something genuine in her eyes as she does.

            Steve looks Coulson steadily in the eye. “If there’s anything you need from me, Director, I hope you won’t hesitate to call.”

            Coulson’s expression is almost identical to the expression he wore two years ago when he fumbled over his words trying to tell Steve about his set of vintage Captain America cards. “Thank you, Captain. If there’s anything we can do to help you…I hope you’ll be in touch.”

            “Naturally.” Steve won’t bother Coulson if he doesn’t have to; he knows the man’s going to be busy. “Be careful, sir. We can’t lose you again.”

            “You don’t have to worry about that,” May says, quietly but firmly. “Family looks out for one another.”

            Coulson looks at her. There’s a curiously vulnerable look in his eyes, that same bewildered humility Steve observed the night before. Skye grins at him, Trip nods; even Simmons manages a small smile.

            “Take care of yourself, Steve,” Clint says, clasping his hand. “We’ll be seeing you.” A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “ _In all the old familiar places…”_

He’s got a damned good voice. Steve returns the grin. “Thanks, Clint. See you around.”

            With one final salute, he and Sam head out to the car.

            “They seem like nice folks,” Sam offers as the car begins to drive away. “And you were right about Coulson. Good man to have on your side in a fight.”

            “Yeah,” Steve agrees. His heart feels a lot lighter than it’s felt in weeks. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing all of them again. Soon.”

            Sam glances over his shoulder. “Might be a good kind of environment for Bucky to recover in.”

            “Thought of that, too,” Steve admits.

            He slides his hands over his thighs, more for something to do with them than from any genuine need, then drops his left hand into the side pocket. His fingers encounter a piece of paper; curious, he draws it out. It’s a short note, in Stark’s handwriting, that makes him smile.

            _Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. When you find Bucky, bring him with you. I look forward to meeting another legend. –Tony._

            “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think it’s exactly the kind of environment we need.”


End file.
